I’d like to file a missing persons report for the person I was 10 years ago,
the person I was before I fell victim to my flaws,
before I even knew what they were.
I’d like to file a report for a lost child who hadn’t lost themself yet,
who didn’t have meaning but never had the need
to even look for it.
I’d like to issue a statement in search of the childlike grin smeared across
her face in primary colours and crayon and paint;
the spitting image of her sister.
I’d like to order people to locate the stars gleaming in her irises,
idolising a single person and becoming them so much so
that people confused their names.
I’d like to initiate a search party for the child with such a fiery gaze,
an iron will and a lack of terror in the face of the
mere people before her.
But she has become a cold case, an old case, aged news, a memory.
Never making it to the papers, not even mentioned
unless through nostalgic dusty photos.
I’d like to file a missing persons report for the person I was 5 years ago,
whose naive innocence was ripped away, who was left barricading
herself from those she came to fear.
I’d like to file a report for an erupting youth whose anxieties were
now tearing through to the surface after a lifetime
of creeping up in a dormant state.
I’d like to issue a statement on the pure fear that fueled her rage,
on how she was a delight to everyone else and a
nightmare crawling beneath her own skin.
I’d like to order the people back then to look for the pain stabbing into
her mind, and watch as they see her, a smooth criminal,
carefully painting over her tracks.
I’d like to initiate a search party for the strength she held within her.
Fractured, and then shattered, yet still finding the power
to put herself back together again.
But she, like the little girl, has become lost in translation, screaming
from somewhere deep within the evidence locker,
but remaining a mere memory.
I’d like to be able to say with honesty that I don’t mourn myself, that I
don’t indulge myself with fears of change or people, or
anxieties wringing my neck.
I’d like to say that I don’t see losing who I was, or growing as a person,
as a massacre of my being on repetitive loop, a murder
that oozes positivity and light.
I’d like to report it, issue a statement, send out search parties, order people
to find me, because maybe I can’t rip this fear and desire
from my past self’s cold, dead hands.
I am filing a report. I am looking. I am issuing a statement. I am finding
and losing and finding myself over and over and over again.
And I always will.