Pink is Only a Colour

There is a little girl in pink.
She is blonde with blue eyes.
She has a friendly, open look.

She is hurt by a trusted adult (they were all trusted adults) in ways a child should not know.

I carry that as an ache in my hips.

It's an ugly, rusty machine which sings pretty songs in the voice of a playmate.
The song then turns to screams only the child in pink can hear.

The machine is blue and grey.
It's bigger than the child.

It is the colour of faded clothes. Like men. In work clothes.

The child, caught in the machine, is silent with fear.
For herself, for her friend.

I would see this machine destroyed. Smashed to bits. But it has long since rusted away.

Now, the child, long grown, feels an ache in her hips, in her heart.


I wrote that in March of 2008. I found it recently. I did not remember writing it or the journal entries or tarot readings that went with it. I have not edited it. I am stunned by the power of my own ability to repress that which I cannot look at. Not just put away for later. No. Totally forgotten.

That is the answer to the qestion, *Can't you just take a break from this for a while?* No, not yet. I am afraid I will take a break and totally repress it again. Sometimes I know that the memories I have are mine to keep now. And sometimes I'm not sure they are *set* yet.