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.
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.