Differences

I bet you he was different then, more beautiful, definitely.

His walk would’ve been more refined, his carriage better placed.

Back when there was chestnut in his hair instead of grey.

Back when it was bleached from sun and not age. 

People like to think they never change, and if so only for the better. 

He puts on the same shirt that he wore to his last dance in high school,

the gingham fabric worn and stretched from both the laundry machine and its owner. 

He goes to work instead of school,

passing out papers instead of receiving them. 

The only thing that’s actually stayed the same is that he still believes he’s right where he was ten, twenty years ago. 

I don’t. 

Ten years ago I was a middle schooler, I was fat, I was angry at the world. 

Twenty years ago I was born, I was fat, I cried because the doctor broke my collar bone. 

Yet still we go back to the same beds, crawl into the same sheets, go to sleep in the same state as we were before—unchanged, yet different. 

  Note: I was motivated to submit this entry to the THUG scholarship through the site Fastweb

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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