May 18, 2009 19:49
I am 5. Birthdays equalled metres
og glossy ribbons in never
ending curls. Origami flowers
glued on brightly coloured parcels.
Hidden away and signed:
"With love."
Longing to uncover the
disguised shapes whenever backs were turned,
my eyes would sparkle in
the dark of cupboards.
I am 9, and gifts are no longer sought after,
calendars are no longer maps on which
"X" marks the spot.
There is no treasure beneath
the leaves questioning my steps.
October is brown.
Cupboards harbour no secrets.
My father stares,
unblinking,
as I turn away.
Sixteen.
Music envelopping the moment.
Miscellaneous tumblers in exotic colours,
darkness lit by laughter.
Pleasures at this age
lie sealed, waiting
to be unveiled.
The world wakes beneath me, houses dance,
the window is now a mirror.
Birthdays no longer punctuated by presents.
english,
poetry,
public