My photograph pushes, peaks, and prods
outside the handsome,
frame that shapes it and makes it
presentable to the world.
I try to fold back the corners,
or to tape down the edges:
it’s my only hope to remind people
of the way that I was framed—
of the parts that were found pretty enough
for the world to see.
But the frame gathers dust and soon
its edges start to crack,
all while the tattered edges of my photograph
curl and grow and yearn to
be let free.