gold

remember those boxing days when all i dreamed was being known by self?
those days meant writing
strength on walls &
free spirit on wind &
independence being flag flown proud.

i searched for my box i'd pack my me in-to. i'd paint my lines so when you inquired, my picture'd be drawn & characteristics listed & my being neat & concise.

but then, these ugly months shredded paper box & flames ate up list & those strong/free/independent writings were left erased & forgotten.

that's why i couldn't see my me in those beer-grinned lima photos, & i couldn't name that girl blissed on those mountain tops, & my cloudy skull couldn't remember self. the broken me couldn't face old brightness, & past smiles became foreign.

then autumn bloomed & the grief set in, & the fallen leaves felt sunken & sad. i thought they'd take old me with them.

but then i took to those aspens inked on my ribs, but to the real ones with real leaves, & i remembered that they're still beautiful after they shed all their reds & yellows & greens. they may not glow, but they still make mouth corners curl. there's less of them to love, but that almost makes it run deeper.

even though so much of me has ashed from the burn, i'm still beautiful. my box may be dead & that list disappeared, & my me less clear, but the me left is standing. and standing after the flames & the storm is more than i would have expected.

i know the girl in the photos better than i used to; she doesn't have much to hide behind. with scars red & tender, she's the rawest she's ever been. she's been touched by the flame, but that's how she became gold. or at least she's closer to it than her brighter self ever dreamed.