Your personal Tumblr library awaits
In the box of my memories is my Granny’s garden with yellow cherries and apples,
And a merry-go-round where I was dizzy and sick,
All those cherries - slimy white purée on my black polished shoes.
In the box of my memories are old fashion magazines that belong in a toilet,
And brown acidic paint Mum brushed the floors with.
In the box of my memories are the solo trips of a six-year-old me through the maze of streets,
The smell of halva I tended to buy after school
And the traces left by the sharp blades of scissors I fell onto, giving me scars and scares.
In the box of my memories are the late-night X-files reruns,
The smell of the dead in a morgue,
and 180 questions to swot for my forensic exam.
In the box of my memories is my white wedding dress, two babies breathing into my chest,
All my dreams -broken, forgotten, the ones that came true.
Let me put ‘em aside - those memories - and make more room for the things to come.