What’s a good picture for you?
mine is the one in which I’m the happiest.
it’s fascinating how the parts of us
that we don’t appreciate enough
are the parts
most worthy of appreciation.
and I don’t just mean appearances.
the over consciousness of my mind
that surrounds me with fear,
the kind
where I’m okay with staying longer
but I’d rather not.
I have too much to hide.
the fresh acne bleeding off my face
or the bleeding of my hollow bones
you won’t see a red colour on me
or feel my skin rough as stone
the cut on my arm that I got last night
trying to rip my skin off
ripping off my sight
of rational consciousness
that the demons already overcame
but you won’t see it through
the faux smile on my face
you won’t see those stretch marks
on my thighs
or my severe guilt-ridden mind
I hope you don’t tell me
to look any more alive
already wise
enough to still be here.
and maybe even stay longer.
no, I’m not depressed
necessarily at least
just not as happy as I looked
in the last picture we took.
you see
That’s the funny thing about pictures.
the stillness is too biased
towards the moment it was taken
that I might never know
what the present holds
for since the moment in the picture
a lot of me,
has moulded into one.
the people standing close
aren’t around at all
to be recognised.
the smiling faces
meant more than just people
they said, “it was a luxury
which couldn’t be bought with money.”
let alone, I try to put myself last
and even, maybe, win both
one day,
the photo-booth would count me worthy
even if I still am the person as I was
a decade away.
so I put the polaroids
on the last page of my book
as if those were the last
pictures I ever took.
