I’m Shuffling Through Old Photos of Myself, but Nostalgia Doesn’t Taste the Same as It Did Before

*Wild Card Post*

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I don’t recognize the girl staring back.

With moonstone eyes as bright as the starts.

The pictures on the wall only show hollow ones

Who’ve stared death in the face.

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She’s sitting on the grass, pink, sparkley bow in her hair

Grinning at me with a flower in her mouth.

Those lips have forgotten how to smile,

Her heart forgot what laughter feels like.

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She’s standing on a stool in a baggy dress-shirt, painting,

Her canvas full of vibrant colors.

But her pallet all mixed into one shade,

Her brush only knows how to paint black now.

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Her hands are holding both her parents’ and she’s smiling,

Her grin missing a few teeth.

Now she leaves when all three are in the same room,

And uses avoidance as a coping mechanism.

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She’s dancing in a hot pink dress,

Crowns and chunky plastic necklaces strewn on the floor.

Now she sits clutching her knees, drowning the voices with music

Her wardrobe all tones of black.

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She’s wrapped in a blanket with her eyes closed,

Hasn’t even talked yet, and she’s at peace.

How far the little angel fell to be here now,

Staring at herself, only days old, and calling her a stranger.

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-The Splintered Pencil