Rusted iron powder mixes into the red rock dirt from old nails left to themselves.
My hands gouge the ground and push at the hardened sand trying to grind the world with the tips of my fingers.
I visit this place in my thoughts so often, the seat of change and placard of pain.
I sit on the edge of that old garage and stir anxiously at the boundary with my morbid curiosity.
Sometimes I try so hard to peep, to see if I will see something different than I did that day.
The twelve year old girl inside me scoffs.
Rows of damaged concrete slabs leading down the garden look more or less how I remember them.
But the boundary is only as far as I let my mind wonder.
With great effort I can sit here, and I can forget what I saw that day.
I don’t want look to that memory behind the shed doors to how vividly the image used to stay with me.
It’s no use disturbing the darkness there.
The small town breeze barely sears my skin now but I can still see the flighty being caught by its nostalgia.
Swept up with the need to remember how good the days could have been there.
I can still hear the giggles and snarls of the nasty children.
I can hear the snickers and gargles of family and friends.
Everything was just so fucked up, and leaving you there in the darkness you created, is all I can muster.
There will be no explanations, or apologises or reparations.
The truth that you have robbed from us stays with your last action.
In my haste through these thoughts, I notice how the dust has turned to sludge.
Something has thickened and as I’ve been trying to go through the days not hateful or self loathing my hands have shrewdly bled.
Bone has stirred the death here, now your face is clear and the swollen liquid in your decaying hands reaches to rob me of breath.
You don’t belong in this place and neither do I.