It’s at the bottom of the moving box

It’s at the bottom of the moving box,

stuck to a pair of rusted kitchen shears.

I’m sifting through the layers and the shocks

of all I’ve put away throughout the years.

My name is printed in a bubbly font

from some convention held a lifetime back.

I look like someone who knew what they’d want

before the world began to show a crack.

The sticky back is dry and full of lint,

it wouldn't hold to any shirt today.

It’s just a curled and faded little hint

of the person that I had to throw away.