The recognition is distant,
yet I can promise I am reaching.
Awareness of a lack of faults that I claimed ownership for,
though never being involved.
It’s a span measured in years,
the rings on skin the marks of age
and brushes against the monsters in mirrors,
tiptoeing specters in the hallways
with cold fingers exploiting insecurity.
It’s a span still to be finalized,
though it’s in the process I find the strange truth
that the hatred I’ve felt was never of me,
but a construct of mine.
It’s in the process I find
there was love, after all.
( ❤ Mitch)