A Polaroid of forgotten memory sits
on a shelf above my bed. I think
I was five, or maybe four, what’s
most apparent is I am bored.
I am sporting a red shirt and a
checkered vest. Someone else
dressed me. I can only wonder why.
A sheepish grin marks my pale face.
I look irked under my skin, perhaps
thinking, I really don’t like this,
or, get me out of this place.
I look almost alone in this picture,
although I am with five others. An
arm is wrapped around me; It
could only be my mother’s.
I march up from my face to hers.
It looks strange to me, distorted
by too wide a smile, it says she’s
trying too hard on a day full of trials.
There’s someone else in this photo,
She goes by Insecurity. She has me slouched
over while everyone sits up straight.
She requested to stay with me a while,
and I obliged. I asked her to leave
when the cameraman arrived,
but it was much too late.