Picture
They say that a picture is worth a thousand words.
In my opinion at least eight hundred of them are lies,
At the very least lies of omission.
I used to like pictures, before I knew what lies they told
Now I hide from the glaring flash
And hide the pictures high up, where my short frame can't reach
Where I don't have to see them.
Yet here they are scattered around my feet
As if taunting "You'll never be rid of me,"
Prompting, unbidden, an album of memories
Few happy, some sweet, many of them better forgotten.
They fell as I attempted to move the box to a higher shelf,
Farther away.
One picture in particular catches my eye
The one that fell near the discolored granite tile, next to the couch
Where I dropped the glue bottle many years ago.
In the picture,
She is smiling with her arm around me, my attempted smile,
Resembling a grimace.
She always was photogenic. That smile of hers well practiced
A hundred times in the mirror before bed.
She is wearing a bright blouse, her hair done up in hard and pointy curls
She always made an effort with her appearance.
She looked good for her age
No, she looked good for someone ten years younger. Still does.
A cultivated appearance for the camera.
The camera may be truthful
Never did it however catch my mother in anything but her best form
She always made sure of that.
But photos are liars
The photo never showed:
My insecurity being photographed, because I hated myself,
(Or what I thought was myself at the time)
My Mother's whispered "you're being selfish" through clenched teeth
Because I did not want my picture taken
Did not want to remember myself as I was then
Did not want another picture for the shoe box on the high shelf.
I looked just like her, yet somehow less
A tinier muted shadow standing next to her.
I thought she was what I wanted to be,
I hoped I could be half as pretty, half as confident.
What I aspired to, was half of what I would become.
She will never be proud of me.
I don't know if I'm happy now,
All I know is I'll never be her.
YOU ARE READING
I wish you'd listen
PoesíaSometimes our loved ones cause us the most grief. And sometimes there's nowhere to run from grief, anger, and anxiety. Growing up can be a difficult journey filled with change, aches, and loss. These poems are the introspective thoughts and memorie...
