the language we speak. 

my childhood memoirs,

a language so effortless,

always bittersweet. 

the picture perfect

family, but underneath

lies lost innocence.


always so loved, and

always on our tippy toes,

line forever blurred.


the scars and regrets,

invisible but still there,

a strong reminder. 


my childhood memoirs,

are now the intricate roots 

of my olive tree.