I Am Her

 

If I were to paint my history

I’d leave a dark space

over my spent adolescence

wasted in a northern, suburban sprawl

too busy pining for its history

the little market town it used to be

living off the back of cotton

 

years later there would be

a high, reflective gloss over

those nights at the pub

the times we flirted and perved in packs

fourteen or more mums

squeezed into little black dresses

wavering on heels that were much too high

 

nor would it be objective to see me through

the eyes of my child

except as my child

who no longer questions

why I keep her first painting

a random mess of innocence and freedom

still hanging there

five years on

 

I am, on private viewing

no more than me

a dreamers portrait

with colours and depth and perspective

a daft blonde

with a glint of childish humour

and beneath it all

an overwhelming need to belong.