**Wrote back in either November or December, just found it in my notebooks**
I have to stop myself
From scrolling though my contacts—
Want to
text,
Want to
call—
A stop sign appears in my head
And my fingers slam on the breaks.
I won’t be,
I can’t be,
The girl you left behind
Fresh
Twenty.
I don’t recognize that girl
When I look in pictures
Compare
them to the woman in the mirror,
There was less darkness and pain
In oh so
many ways!
I can see the hauntings in the dark brown recesses in the
over-worn white now.
Windows to the soul the philosophers say,
Yes, if only you have a key, and even then
I will hide
a piece from you.
