I find myself missing the old me

Much more frequently

On days when I am forced to converse

With people who know nothing of my life,

Nothing of my interests,

Or my passions,

Or my goals.

I find myself missing the old ways

In which I would react to a comment,

Or a boy trying to touch me,

Or a problem I feel I cannot solve.

I find myself wondering if I can get it back–

The spark I used to have,

The love that once was present in my burnt-out heart,

The drive that once existed in my burnt-out mind.

But then I realize I do not want to know her any longer,

Nor do I wish to be her–

The helpless girl,

The starving child,

The writer on fire.

I do not wish to return to my old self,

Though I often miss her.

I am better now, misery and all

I am happy knowing I have become the very person many

Of my former friends would have been resentful of,

Would have been worried for.

I am content with this woman who seeks approval,

Who responds well to praise, who raises many questions

As she walks inside a room turning heads on a Tuesday morning,

As she waltzes her way into another situation on a Saturday evening–

An arrangement that will not last,

A contract that she will tear up and disallow tears to follow.