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I have been here once before – It was a long time ago, I don't remember when.But as my father handed me the axe-headImages exploded in my brain.
That fire, they said, was red as red as redas red as a fox, your lips, a cherry;that fire, they said spread and spread and spread,faster than a cheetah or a nasty rumour;
Tippi can't stand clowns.Dragon is terrified of cockroachesand Mom of mice.Dad pretends to be fearless,though I've seen him flinch when the mail arrivesseen him hide
The building is white,ivy eating its way up the broken walls,windows smalland scratched.
She is not here.Not beside me in bednor in the roomat all.
It has happened
Miss Flotsam was my reception teacher.She had travelled the world.Brown hair turned goldenunder distant suns,clothes carrying coloursfrom countless corners of continents.
This is my story.It is mine alone because I am the one who needsto tell it.I am the one who is still here,no longer stage right but
All you see is outside me: my painted smile,the rosy-posy shell, the fluttery eyes.A butter-won’t-melt-in-my-mouth-type me
The hidden garden we played in was bordered in red brick.Crenellations of a faded fort,ivy-scattered and wing-aged.A Victorian garden.
I spied a small lonely boy.I was his beautiful red balloon,from morning through to noon,