Wildflowers

I see photos of myself

from a few years ago,

a self i’m not sure is me.

But we have the same eyes

same nose

same indented cheeks.

She— she is happy

truly incandescently brilliantly

happy.

Most times I tell myself I haven’t ever been,

I never was.

That it was a

dream I ached to be real.

I forced myself to feel joy

I lied and pretended and bartered

with my mouth to open in a smile—

but that can’t be true.

Because

these photos,

this girl,

that happiness

it cannot be fabricated

or bought.

It blossomed out of me

like wildflowers in search

of the sky.

This gives me hope.

For tomorrow I might wake up

and that joy will come back to me

like an old friend,

one I will greet open armed. I

will sing the melodies of worship

I thought I had forgotten

and the two of us, we will converse

about our families and friends and lovers

as if no time has passed.

And that girl in the photo,

the version of myself

the self I’ve only briefly danced with—

That is who I will be remembered as.