The child sits alone on the second lowest stair.
His heart is open wide to the feeling of despair.
Incongruous and obsolete, ridiculous and wrong.
He sings the song for comfort but it doesn’t fill the void.
He wasn’t who they’d wanted and he ought to be destroyed.
Maybe he should say that he is sorry to them now.
Sorry for existing and for causing such a row.
Or maybe that would make it worse, to show his little face.
After all, he doesn’t understand the human race.
Maybe if he died he’d be invisible, unseen.
And that is so much worse than having parents who aren’t kind.
With nobody to comfort him; with nobody to share.
And one day soon I’m hoping he will let me in, at last.
I’ve built a lot of bridges to him. Now I see the way.
But I’m scared he doesn’t want me so I cannot cross today.
Waiting for the shadow of the woman I called ‘mummy’.
Shadows can’t support him to be trusting; to be wild.
They’re made of broke down castles which have all but turned to dust.
In the centre of my heart beyond the reach of time and space.
Sometimes, in the mirror, I can see his little face.