I look at old photos of myself young and wonder..
Why the hell did you deviate from them cells that made you Lou at that time?
Your metamorphism not for positive but negative, inwardly crawling inside like a reverse butterfly, you wish back to cocoon, older, comforted curled in a foetus position in the womb, did you blossom too soon?
I see my skin starting to turn to crepe paper around my eyes,
the fragility a reminder of the passing of time,
how quick in glimpses and passages of slow i've witnessed my life go.
80 weeks watching my stomach grow, my heart and breasts swell, visualising the tiny yelps, the joyful wails that I created whilst they made me.
Though I pictured more for me than me just having babies.
I miss the naivety of my youth.
All the things I dreamed I would do.
The obstacles, the challenges, softened language making my harrowing tales more palatable.
The words abuse and child, naturally uncomfortable, drop in addiction, it's more than habitual, ingrained into a brain that berates itself constantly, I hate the name Lorraine, I resent the responsibility I put on my shoulders.
Getting older, not wiser and I'm tired.
I'm so scared that I've wasted my life.
And on my death bed all that i'll recollect.
Will be what I should have done,
Dmt flooded with regret.
Second guessing until there's seconds left.