TALK THERAPY
BY LATIFA SEKARINI

moms buy mangoes 
because they don’t know how to say sorry,
they give hollow hugs and smile
when your teacher says
“she was a pleasure to have in class!”
childhood tastes like paracetamol
and omelettes before school
but you wonder if you’ve outgrown all that
when your therapist asks how old you are.
you don’t know if you’ve grown up yet,
you’ve always felt like 25. 
how do i tell her,
i remember every birthday cake i’ve had
but i don’t remember being five or ten?

when you’re older, 
band-aids aren’t magic anymore, 
but you slap disney princesses on your thighs 
just for good measure. 
how do you feel? the therapist asks. 
i feel like i’m nine years old 
and i’ve just seen augustus egg’s past and present at tate britain, you whisper.
a house of cards lie at your feet,
and your aunty calls from way back home,
but silence engulfs you
before your mother’s anger. 

you don’t tell her 
you want your ten year old self 
to write your obituary 
because you know they will lie. 
being honest tires you out, 
but you will write first drafts 
in blue english books 
because it feels good 
to live in a world 
where you get second chances. 

i left a part of me at kingsbury station
a young girl with ragged hair,
eyes glued to the tube maps, 
fingers curled around a bottle of red ribena. 
her mom didn’t know how to grow up,
so she was the one
who learned to lie, 
scavenge for scraps,
and act like she’s been 25 all along,
but she’s still ten inside her head. 
when my therapist asks what i want, 
i say, i want to tell my ten year old self 
i’m sorry i never got to see them grow up.