Can things that were once bad for you, ever really become good?
This is one the things I’ve had to consider since coming back, recalling how I always struggled to feel like a part of the family when I was growing up. Most of my time was spent plotting how to eventually get away for good; a motivator that propelled me to succeed in certain areas, in order to reach my ultimate goal of living far, far away from the life I knew.
I’ve been thinking a lot about transitional objects, wondering whether they can change and move, at will or according to circumstance. Since coming back, mine have become fluid and almost completely out of my grasp.
We haven’t seen Nana; not since the fire. I told friends at school it was a blaze, but I lied, like always. It was just a fire, spreading quickly and evenly throughout our kitchen. We inhaled smoke and the next day we weren’t allowed to eat breakfast. No more cornflakes or rice krispies or even the weetabix that I hated. Everything was just black shapes on a black table with black floors and black ceilings.
Black is beautiful. Never forget this.
Nana said this to me once, when she caught me scrubbing my skin raw in the bath in the middle of the night. Only she and I awake as she wrenched the ghana sponge from my hand.
Why would you do this?
Her eyes always asked questions when her mouth was silent. I told her about the girls at school, the way the boys were, the word dirty
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