and try on anecdotes like worn scarves; the whispers of a girl I will never get to know. I’m not a fan of the past, she’ll say, knees bent a reverential ninety degrees
as she uproots a tree with more memories than a flower. She seems to recount days ticked off like a historical report, all bullet points and clauses
while I shift from heel to toe with two of her lip glosses in my trouser pocket. The steam rises on another boiling kettle and I am scavenging her eyeliners
to make myself align. I have never been said to look like her but here are the tools, the shapes in which I can craft. Here is her sigh
and the ruffle of her hair as she puts another child to bed. Here is her school diaries and the hoodie carried from sixteen,
as she twirls fluffy assurances, mere dance batons that I was not a bad thing coming. The tea-stained pages of her youth sit under the paperweight of years and here she is now, a mosaic, a picture left to hang dry for so many years.
Olivia Burgess is a 17 year old raised and residing in the UK. Her poetry focuses on nature, love, her muse (who shall remain unnamed) and her internal dialogues. She has a smattering of publishings, from a short story chapbook to Paper Crane Journal, with forthcoming work in Ice Lolly Review and Cathartic Literary. When she's not unleashing her words, she fancies herself a bit of a good cook and constantly listening to music. You can find more on her Instagram @light.green_eyes