On the first warm days of spring,
when a balmy gust of wind passes me by,
I feel a ghost trailing behind me.
I'm always trying to bury my younger self.
Pretend they were someone else,
someone I can ignore. Or forget.
When I feel them drifting by
in the warm March breeze
on a sunny day
amidst the weeds, wildflowers,
and heavy lakeside air,
they are ashamed of themself,
but I hear them silently beg for my forgiveness.
Were they really everything terrible
that I remember them being?
Embarassing? Ignorant? Naive? Intolerable?
Unforgivable?
Maybe they're just a child.
Confused, siltently screaming to be loved.
And known without judgement.