My Voices

My voices
Speak to me
Inside my head.
They travel in a troop
Like a cloud
Of babble.
One is shame,
mud soaked,
discarded, and yet
loudest of them all,
One cries ‘look at me’,
she wears a red dress
and high, high heels.
One slips by invisible, almost.
Transparent,
made of cellophane.
One clings.
Wanting to be held.
One rages.
My angry girl,
so brave,
so vibrant.
Behind them
Walks a silent old woman
Dressed in dark oil skin.
Always prepared for disaster
She follows them
in silent solitude.
Slung across her back
In a rucksack twice her size
The colossal collection of
My lost memories.

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