I told you about the memories.
The were a deluge,
What was a small drop,
Became a torrent,
And I am being battered by them,
I can't control them,
No more than I can describe colour to a blind person,
Or hold a handful of water.
I can be mid conversation with my son,
And like a cranky old projector,
A scene starts playing in my mind.
On the inside I am screaming for it to stop,
To go away,
Because for now,
I need to be Maternal Mand,
I cannot be vulnerable Mand,
Who is confused.
Confused by the feelings within my body,
Disgusted by my sexual reaction,
My need for the love I received.
It is so disturbing.
It is wrong.
But without it,
Who would I now be?
Was it so very wrong?
Does it surprise you?
Do I now repulse you?
You told me to write my memories.
To get them out.
To destroy them.
But I find I can't.
Because by doing that,
Am I not also destroying myself?
This is hard.
I knew it would be hard.
I understand why you warned me.
Because despite having been here before,
This is different.
This is a younger, purer, innocent child.
Who is struggling to understand what she has done wrong.