Words: Eilidh McDade
My tea keeps going cold. I’m always forgetting it’s there. I want to cut my hair but I can’t let go of anything. I cannot tell you the number of times I have brushed the knots out the second you left the room. I can’t seem to remember to lock my front door anymore. I can recognise you from your shadow. Do you remember falling asleep with the candles burning? Have you heard that poem about how when you are born in a burning house, it makes you think the whole world is on fire? It was the same night i asked you to stop shaping me with your hands –
[ i used to think
a lot about your hands
trees could root in those palms
forests could bloom, they are so steady]
I felt like a child
scolded and ashamed
for asking ‘so much’
for hating the way your words made me feel
there is no tenderness here.
i’m sure there was once
(although I’m not sure how much time has passed,)
all i know
is that the softness in me has grown tired
like an old dog
this undying loyalty
and I am waiting for the day
I can close this door and finally mean it
Oh, but the echo !
The echo is what drives girls like me
mad with remembering.