Scrapbook
Dust off the scrapbook
Pages filled with hand-cut memories
A tiny smiling face
I can’t remember that girl
My childhood was a blur
The house a battlefield
Bloodied hearts competing for love
As I hear a teacher discuss
How quiet, and mature I am
Eight years old and I’d already absorbed
The patterns for survival
I learned to escape the present
Live in some far-off fantasy
Maybe that explains
Why I have no memory
Imagination sustained my being
Art the lifeline I grasped onto
Held on until I became
Who I’m becoming
Holding the picture in my hands
I weave together the stories
Close the scrapbook and
Remember