Picture I Shouldn’t Hold

The photo slipped out from between pages,

edges curling like old wounds.

A face smiled back, cracked ink,

somewhere between memory and regret.

Half the smile had bled away—

a smudge that blurred truth and lies.

That ghost grinned with a secret

I wasn’t ready to carry again.

I held it like a shard of glass,

tip catching skin, trembling.

The past leaned in,

close and sharp, pressing down.

I should have thrown it away,

but the photo stayed, haunted,

etched in my palm,

a weight I could not let go.