Why I Write

I can remember being that little girl, with no mother.
I can think back to never thinking back about my father.
I can relive the moment of being snatched into reality.
I can’t…I can’t…I can’t.

Three years old, so many emotions, so many struggles.
I needed help, I don’t know these people, help me.
So I drew. I drew pictures of my mother and I.
I guess I figured, they would know.

Later, I used the lead and lines to help explain.
I’d use the point of my pencil to help me escape;
To help me jettison every sad emotion.
The pink tip would erase everything but my smile.

I write to help them believe, to help me believe I am fine.
It is my own form of camouflage; it conceals me well.
You’d never believe that all this came from a child.
A little girl, missing her mother.

I can remember that feeling of hopelessness,
I can think back to realizing I’d never see her again.
I can relive the moment when I erupted onto the paper.
I can’t…but somehow, I will.


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