Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Slipping Through Her Fingers

I blacked out and woke up with bruised knees.
For a second,
it felt like I standing on the frame of my brother’s buggy again,
peering over the sun guard,
to see the world a little better,
but, no, I was just back in bed,
nursed by a matron who meant well, but had to know she was trying to heal a lost cause.

I’ll never see myself the way that you do,
and I was never afraid of losing myself forever,
because I was already lost,
so, slipping away a little more each day just felt natural,
but you kept bedside vigil,
in case I found a way back.

As I slept,
you said something about how it had always felt like I was slipping through your fingers,
but you had to know that I was never really there.
You gave birth to a ghost,
a spirit, who couldn’t ever stay,
but still,
you hoped I’d stray from the plan,
remaining in this realm just a little longer.

The sun is so bright on my worst days,
and I can see her,
the girl you’ve been waiting for,
her hand clasped in yours,
tight and frightened,
and I realise that I’ve been waiting for her too,
but she’s been lost, for the longest time.

I don’t see her, when I stare in the mirror,
except for a small shadow,
that grows fainter with every second,
and I finally understand why you miss me most when you look at my baby photos.
Is it selfish to banish her?
I can’t stand to look at her,
because I’m embroiled in envy,
at how blissfully unaware she is.

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