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I’m going through
the photo album
contained in my mind.
I come across photos
I’ve held onto,
ones that show me
from a past long ago.
In the pictures,
I look uncomfortable
in the body that
I’m expected to inhabit,
one that came with expectations
of who I was
and what I was
supposed to be.
Even though I left home
so many years ago,
I’ve carried these scant memories,
wanting some kind of talisman
or touchstone to remind me
of where I came from.
Looking at the photos,
at my face and body language,
I see the shame that I carried with me,
so desperate I was
to fit in,
to hide,
to not be seen.
It was easier that way.
I left when I realized
that was the easier option
rather than sacrifice myself.
I take out the handful of photos
that I’ve kept,
and I flip through them.
In each successive picture,
my image becomes more
and more transparent.
In the last photo,
I am not even there.
In my mind,
I hold the photos
and my hands grow hot.
The fire I have created
engulfs the photos in a flame
that burns so brightly
until there is only smoke.
I take a deep breath in.
When I let my breath flow out
past my lips,
I let the smoke
float into the sky
and say goodbye
to the me that
I used to know
because I’m finally able
to let go.