For H.C.
My hands still smell from when I touched you. I was only skimming my fingers lightly because I forgot that you weren’t fragile any more.
Alive, you were the most terrifying five year old ever to grace fluffy pink jumpers and woollen booties. So much so, that I felt like I needed a S.W.A.T. team's worth of aid just to keep you alive. I know I didn't do the best job sometimes.
I sometimes caught myself defining you by that tiny, inocuous, plastic button that they stuck in your belly, so I’m sad to say that I don’t who you would have been without it.
Now you are just a doll, a shell.
I know you just wear oils like a mask
but I can’t help thinking how great it is
that they rebuilt you from jasmine.