Portrait

The best and worst thing about moving away
Is nobody knows who you are:
Rebirth, reincarnation,
Same body, same memories
But the freedom to build yourself
From scratch.

Vulgar, violent – in the past.
I painted with soft hues,
Bleached out the shameful blackness
Of my tongue, my bruised fists,
Overwritten and sanitised,
Reborn at thirteen.

The spotless portrait
Gathered blemishes with time;
I hid them, overwrit them,
With blotches of pure white,
Caged myself in the portrait I’d painted,
Frozen in my friends’ eyes.

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