I look at myself in the picture and,
though I’m smiling,
I don’t look happy.
In the background,
just to the side of me,
is my cane.
It used to be my constant companion,
my third leg.
I used the cane to walk,
albeit very slowly.
There is a beer in my hand.
The photo can’t convey how cold it was,
or how refreshing it was on such a hot day.
This photo was taken a few hours before one of my dreams came true,
I would see one of my favourite artists,
and attend my very first concert.
What the photo doesn’t tell you is the struggle,
the constant arguing,
words that were lobbied like bullets over an expanse of grass.
The photo doesn’t tell you the shame I felt,
or the anger I held in check all day.
This photo can’t relay how I was feeling,
even though some of it is visible in my face.
It can’t tell you that,
shortly after this photo was taken,
I would begin a new chapter in my life,
one where I valued myself enough to cast aside those who didn’t.
It can’t tell you about the internal war that was going on within me,
or the fight that my body was having with itself.
The photo can’t tell you my feelings towards myself,
and the fact that they were beginning to change.
The photo doesn’t let you know that,
shortly after this picture was taken,
I would begin my metamorphosis.
For it is only a picture,
a single moment,
caught in time.