“How Did You Leave Your Old Self Behind?”
I put her into written word and left her on the page.
Broken heart metaphors
Sad-eyed smile similes
Coming-of-age tales, written without endings.
I never could finish a story because I always got caught
somewhere in the middle,
hung up on a syllable that didn’t quite sit right
an imbalance of rhythm battling my adolescent brain.
“Is that how you leave your old self behind?”
The truth? I lied. I never let her go.
She exists in every piece of prose I’ve ever put down to paper.
I carry her everywhere— all two versions
Including this one I will abandon soon.