Sometimes I borrowed my mother’s clothes
and her make-up, her high heels and handbags.
Of course, they were too big for me.
Same with daddy’s briefcase
and the suitcases we took on holiday trips.
When I saw the tiny red suitcase in the toyshop
I bought it with my birthday money.
It had thick shiny plastic
and looked really swish.
I took it everywhere.
When I grew older, I decided to become an artist
but my childish drawings were only ideas.
So I collected bits of coloured pictures,
discarded by older children at school.
Just the ones I liked best
and hid them in my suitcase.
No one got to look inside.
They were my secrets,
my special things
when I was grown up.
I had it all planned.
But by the time I was grown up
my secrets were just bits of torn paper
covered with scribbles and street dirt.
They meant nothing to me anymore,
and my tiny red suitcase
was dull and worn.
Dreams cracked and broke and finally