History

Kate Thompson is scribbling black ink on the

cream walls of her too big bedroom.

She is too tired at six to proof read anything.

In her bedroom there are cracks

for the rain to slide between.

Kate Thompson sits alone at one,

watching the water stain her walls

as the words run.

It reminds her of milk curdling.

Kate Thompson folds down the corners of pages,

but sighs with frustration when others do the same.

She presses her hands

down hard on the creases

to straighten them out,

flat like the rest.

Kate Thompson has six

book piles sprinkled around her bedroom,

like sugar crystals on

her strawberry cupcakes.

She more often than not forgets to return them,

and is used to

smashing her piggy bank

to pay for library fines.

Kate Thompson lives in a world

where trees are not green

and instead are four letters.

Kate Thompson likes smudging

the black edges of words.

She smiles

when things like these are beautifully imperfect.

A caterpillar hole on a perfect leaf,

the groan of a teenager when their mother’s

tear crawls from her eyes.

Kate Thompson wants to find words for these.

Kate Thompson wants to write new words.

This is her dictionary.

This is her history.