There is a photograph of me.
A child, always reaching out
for attention, desperate to be
something, anything, even if that
is just a failure to those around me.
I look into his eyes and whilst
the smile lies; I see sadness.
For the person inside
is unsure of the mask
behind which he hides,
but he can’t connect the lines,
the dots too wide apart,
the smile too high.
Now, the boy in the photograph
was never starved of affection.
He was loved, but he was a shadow
of who he felt inside, not the person
he should be, for he missed the love
that would have meant the most…
His own.
A skin suit on a mannequin.
Someone that couldn’t undress the costume
he had put on previously.
An outsider looking in, observing the scenery.
Wondering if anyone was watching
as he adjusts himself to reality.
And the photos keep coming,
appearing through foggy static.
Holidays by the sea, family.
All smiles, but memory speaks
in different tones. He remembers...
Alone. Being alone.
Always something
missing. A seed not yet sown,
a flower yet to grow.
Always a part that is hidden,
a place inside that hasn’t yet
been visited upon. A constant revision
of the portrait. As slowly the child hid away.
And he fought back tears,
sought answers he couldn’t
ever hope to find, looked
to others to help see
who was inside, but no one
could unprise the boy
from the false smiles in his eyes.
And he fell to lies, uncaring sneers
wrapped in delicate lines. He believed in love.
When love was away collecting fruit.
Until a sprinkling of bad fortune,
mixed with a desire to explore.
He sought through those
photographs once more,
and saw the love, the heart,
the smile underneath the false grin.
The person within the skin mannequin.
And now I reach more recent photos.
The man standing proudly
and the fog splitting around him.
Arms raised, mic to lips as if in silent praise,
a kiss whispered to the eaves.
As he speaks with a strength that
he had never known he had,
and the smile that he wears
will not become
faded.
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