My Business Woman, Yellow

The beginning,
As far into my past as my mind can reach.
Back when I could bathe in the rush of normality,
Well, as normal as I ever was.
People like me have stories,
Dark pasts.
Secrets,
Even we, ourselves, wish desperately to forget.
 
Normal folks: they don’t know me.
And yet they pride themselves on the fact they do.
I have a tattoo,
On my left shoulder,
The wings of an angel.
Sure, people know this,
I do not hide it: I am not ashamed.
But these same people do not know about my angel.
They do not know why she is there.
They are blind, and maybe they just do not care.
These are my secrets,
My past.
My life. 
 
The beginning is as normal as the folks
who have seen my angel.
A child, born with nothing, 
of nothing.
But it becomes more.
 
Welcomed into the world by a grateful couple,
Married last spring. I became a problem
to the woman in the back seat with her arm,
choked with needles.
A father?
Driving that car.
 
Society says theft is wrong,
And steal me from my mother’s punctured cradle,
No,
not my mother,
my business woman.
Her red eyes not flooding for me.
Sometimes,
I like to pretend her eyes were yellow,
not her face.
Sunshine,
The light of my shame.
 
My next memory, is not bottled,
And neither does it make much sense.
And yet, right now, it is all I have,
All I can speak. 
I could see the unborn pearls beneath my feet,
The poison laughter of the bob-hair twins still haunts me.
I did not understand.
I do not understand.
Their pretty yellow dresses stole my light and sun,
The feeling that they knew my business woman
is still with me today.
 
Number four.
I was number four of thirteen,
She doesn’t even know my name.
 
With age I learnt, 
welcomed by a new family,
But the psychotic stirrings of my younger blood
broke free.
Sister.
She is the younger self of my business woman,
Making my secrets harder to hide,
Alive.
 
Leaving at sixteen,
I did not run,
I have spent my entire life running,
And so, welcomed the push of those who gave me new life,
I left.
Gone.
But still,
I run.