• the_story_weed 148w

    --Often when we look hard enough, we (re)discover a part of us, that had been buried so deep within, we can't help but wonder; how it hadn't turned into ashes yet?---

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    Two halves of a photograph

    I did an unthinkable thing when I was nine,
    I made magic real.
    I tore apart the family photo out of anger,
    and two halves of a photograph remained.

    In the first half of it,
    my mama and I were smiling,
    and in the other piece my father alone remained.

    The next morning my father packed
    his bags, and walked out on us.
    Before going he told me something,
    but I couldn't understand what.
    So, I imagined.
    His words could have been anything,
    and so I imagined them to be,
    'I'll come back."
    That night I slept with my father's half
    of the photo under my pillow.

    I'm gulity of tilting towards love,
    when I should have gone with reason.

    Once I hugged a man,
    because he looked like my father from behind,
    so my mother explained,
    that you needed to look at a
    person from the front to identify them.
    Five years without the man in the
    other half of the photo have taught me,
    you never could identity a person at all.

    I realize,
    the man in the other half of the photo,
    never spoke at all,
    it was his eyes that disowned me.
    Slowly, I have realized, the man in the other
    half of the photo, was just one half of an
    unwanted photo that remained.

    So I, stop searching, for the man in the
    other half of the photo, everywhere that I go.

    I understand I belong
    in the half of the photo I remained.
    That night I threw away the photo
    of the man in the other half,
    and slept with the one with
    me and my mama instead.
    ©the_story_weed