The photo yellowed in my hand

The photo, yellowed, in my hand.

Junior high, that awkward stage.

My face, a moon, across the land

of that forgotten, dreadful page.

The bangs, a crime, cut straight across,

too short, too blunt, a jagged line.

A perfect, adolescent loss.

Scissors, then, no friend of mine.

My ears stuck out, like small, pink flags.

The hair around, a fuzzy cap.

Those uneven, awful rags.

My self-esteem, caught in that trap.

I stared, and felt the old blush rise.

That terrible, remembered shame.

No matter how the memory dies,

it flickers, with that awkward frame.