I've always wanted to know who I was
as a young girl,
and gravitate toward my childhood
in order to discover
what I really am
under the carcass of a woman.
Little scraps of paper
a broken ring tissue-wrapped
and, if I could, a page of diary
in that childish flowery imitation of an adult's scripts.
They are nowhere to be found.
The tsunami of time, and the quake of a revolution
had taken my past with it.
And the life rebuilt, year by year re-edified
Memories: hours by hours accumulated
old notebooks, copies of receipts, movie ticket stubs
They are my scrapbooks
that per chance might hold the essence of my soul,
Now and then heartlessly purged
by one who never experienced a painful loss.
Into the black bin,
the monstrous, smelly bin
caked with food scraps
All that could have been.
The footprints of a youthful dream
for the tired adults
The over-sized feet
This is who I supposed to be.