Sometimes I Miss Who I Was
Sometimes I miss who I was
before I learned to explain myself.
Before every silence had to mean something,
before love became a word that people negotiated.
I used to think healing was a sunrise —
something bright and inevitable.
Now I know it’s a long night,
and sometimes the stars forget to show up.
I still talk to my reflection
like it’s an old friend who drifted away.
We laugh about things no one else would find funny —
the time I almost believed I was enough,
the time I pretended I didn’t care.
I keep pieces of people
tucked under my ribs —
a song they once hummed,
a half-finished sentence,
a scent that won’t leave my clothes.
Some of them ache quietly.
Some of them still feel like home.
And yet, I’m learning — slowly —
that maybe the point of all this
isn’t to become someone new,
but to love who remains
after the breaking.
-Gayathri Nandagiri
BA MLS 121323011008