I drink my father's lemonade
And I think that I'm his daughter
And I will remember the cans and cans of sparkling lemon soda, scattered around the table, their bubbles popping in the summer.
And I will remember that I am a girl.
I take a glass that was once a mustard pot.
My grandmother drank in it, and I washed it this morning, scraping my hands on the rougher side of the sponge. Sometimes she can be mean.
And I think that I'm her granddaughter
And that I will remember that every time they visited us they gave us sweet little treats and how her and i look so much alike in our kindergarten photos.
And I will remember that I am a girl.
I eat some of the chocolate chips from the family sized bag.
My sister made a cake, but didn't use them. She likes to eat them just like that. She's happy often.
And I will remember that I am her sister
And that I will remember her laugh and her annoyed comments, and her vinyls and pretty pink nail polish, and how my guilt still lingers (I'm sorry I pushed you away)
And I will remember that I am a girl.
I went in the basement, looking for a piece of clothing. I was lost, with nothing in my eyes to see anything else than a girl on the wall. The pants and shirts and the dresses do not belong to me. I'm looking for the weight on my chest, I'm looking to be crushed under what I can touch, under what I can wear, I'll breathe a little easier as I kill my lungs slowly.
I did not find it.
And I remembered that I had never been a girl.
