“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.