Who am I?
I’ve been asked this same question
Over and over, day after day
They say we are made of memories
But what if I have none?
A blank childhood
A blank state
A locked book that I don’t have the key for
And don’t know if I want opened
Because the black ink that oozes from under the bind
Reminds me of a hurt that no one should have
It makes me small and weak and unsure
But wait a minute
That’s what I went through
That doesn’t define me
Does it? No
No it defines the animosity of an unforgiving world to one small child
I am so much more
I am brave and smart and certain
I don’t know who I was
But I know who I am.
