By: Immaculate Thee Poetess (Wanga Mathele)
I have no memory of my childhood
No nostalgic memories of my inner child
Nor do I miss my childhood
Or is that what I tell myself?
Hear me out
Every part of my childhood is tainted
Every phase looks likes a psychiatrists notes
A map to my underlying mental state
A well guided book to triggers of bipolar
An authentic museum of my trauma
So authentic it’s an open roof
Where the rain pours in forest-like
Lightning lights up the cracked walls like Christmas lights
With mirrors that reflect everything but HER
So in a world that took away her childhood
Reaped the innocence out of her heart
Stormed the light out of my eyes
Harvested anger and emotional insanity
As I cover my face with my small child like hands
I’d like to believe my childhood is a rundown abounded carnival city
You can hear the echos of laughter that once filled through the city
The dusty rides that holds memories
It’s so big you can feel the emptiness and how hallow it feels.
The breeze is cold but not more than the hugs I never received at the age of 7
Although my heart still seems to plake at the point that this is the same world that took my childhood before my tiny hands could grasp it