interesting to see
how i grew up and came to be;
what i wrote, how i spoke.
no one euphemism fits
yet i shall try to describe:

like a reptile that shed its skin and kept it,
like a keepsake, which at one time was cherished
but now left to weather by the windowsill.
like seeing the scars
from the wounds you know you dealt yourself,
ones you still call beautiful despite all the horror.

it's the closest to seeing how angsty and in your head you were,
how you felt everything, even the nothing,
how you so desperately wanted to crawl out of your skin,
and you still sometimes do.
you read those words and feel like
those words were never yours.
but they are.

at least now you know you've changed;
not where you wanted to be,
but farther than where you once were;
and that, i think, is beautiful.