You think I don’t see you looking at me in the mirror, eyes of scorn, tilted head. Since little I had to repeat your lines, say them backwards, distil their meaning; my success measured by your tight lips, folded arms, hands that never touched — bad girl, bad, bad, bad is all I got from you. Do not judge my room — a reflection of the mind you have sculpted for me, stacked with junk; this bed the lap I never had, a TV to tell me stories and sing me lullabies, red dress and velvety boob tube to keep me warm, roller blinds for boundaries, an old-fashioned camera for happy snaps. It’s time for you to leave now. I’m finding my own way forward — seven years on the coach with Freud to clean up this room.