Suicide Lane Cafe

recorded memory

i am five years old; 
begging mummy to bring me to the park
asking daddy if grandpa is coming for dinner and if he'll teach me how to count while he's here.

i am six years old; 
hunched in the dirt, watching ants scurry
learning how to write my name in english with a broken stick.

i am seven years old;
hiding in my bed from the glasses that shatter
wishing god would take me somewhere safe.

i am eight years old;
watching shadows flicker across my ceiling
and wondering if humans can run away to join the stars. 

i am nine years old; 
head down and walking to tuition
where a nice english lady would teach me how to articulate the pain i feel.

i am ten years old; 
watching another baby be born,
uncertain how to take care of two children at once.

i am eleven years old;
staring, head cocked, at a broken mirror
running my hands over a body that isn't good enough.

i am twelve years old; 
unsure how to express my rage
and hitting little brother the way mummy hits daddy.

i am thirteen years old;
no longer afraid of ghosts or god
because a family of five has become three and everything else pales in comparison.

i am fourteen years old; 
tiptoeing to reach a standard set by everyone around me
watching iron rust on my wrist

i am fifteen years old;
twenty pounds underweight but for the first time i am in control
at least, that's what i tell my reflection

i am sixteen years old;
pushing my brother into the room so my father doesn't hurt him
closing my eyes and wondering what it would be like to die

i am seventeen years old;
counting bruises that bloom across my stomach,
begging my brother to stay in school, raging at my father when he doesn't.

i am eighteen years old; 
losing myself in the burn of smoke down windpipe and cocaine surging through veins
because without that i might float away to someplace else. 

i am nineteen years old; 
flinching when i bumped into a man 
and confused when instead of raising a hand, he laughs.

i am twenty years old; 
learning how not to shrink back at loud noises, how to love unconditionally
picking up the phone and hearing my mother's voice for the first time in seven years

i am twenty-one years old;
little brother found himself a job and i realise the scars that ladder up my wrist have faded to white
it's little sister's birthday tomorrow and i wonder how, against all odds, i am still alive.