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Description
I loath looking at pictures
Of myself when I was little,
Well, smaller than I am now.
Even though my childhood
Was a happy one.

Every so often
My mom makes me
Sit on her lap
And goes through every album
She can find.
That is…
Until I can slip away.

I can't handle seeing
My big brown eyes
Grinning.
Now they're cold,
Distant, sad…
I miss how big
And bright they were.

Now I smear on makeup
So that you don't notice
The sleep-deprived bags
Which have the veined tint
Of gasoline left out in the sun.

I'm forced to reminisce
About how long my hair was
And how my mom promised
To never cut it.
Pinky swore.

Until I got tired
Of it being pulled on,
Tugged,
Wrenched,
Yanked,
And caught in the wind.

My hair's long again,
But it's not the same…
As when I loved it.

Even then I was told to get braces
But that was yet another figment
Of my mother's imagination.
So I grinned and beamed in spite,
But I did it with joy.

I can't bear to scrutinize
My smile from when I was 5…
I can't look it in the eye.

I miss it.
I put up lost signs
Please return to…
But the new owner is too smitten
To return it.

And that is why, mommy,
I refuse to look at our memories.