Reflection in a Grainy Snapshot

I found a box beneath the stairs, full of dreams turned dust,

shadows flickering like ghosts, their smiles stretched wide, but fake.

My frizzy hair, a halo of awkward youth, a grin plastered on, as if I could buy back joy.

The edges are worn, like the years have been unkind,

each grainy spot a reminder of days I’d rather forget,

when mirrors betrayed me, revealing too much, or not enough.

Now I sit with this image, half-laughing, half-cringing,

and wonder how much of me was hidden in that frame—

how many masks did I wear, trapped in that old snapshot?