They say a picture is worth a thousand words.


Slumber? X Pro II? Ludwig? Lo-Fi? Perpetua? Valencia? Rise? Mayfair? Hudson? Willow? Earlybird? God forbid, you even start, Amaro. 

As if these filters know what they are doing.

Slumber, what do you know of this boy and girl

Through your faux-vintage blur? 

Or what about X Pro II, when your contrast is preferred. 

Where auburn is brunt and blonde is turned to currant?

Ludwig? Lo-Fi?

I’m begging you now,

Valencia, your hazy indistinctive work, 

What do you know of half-smiles and smirks.


Mayfair, stand on the witness box,

What can you say when your orange hue blocks--something

Hudson, when they were baptized in your filter

You washed away those chastised in the gutter.

Look at that! Skin now seems clean and hair...a bit green.

But never mind.

Willow, black and white, you make it quite clear

Your portrayal of this photo is nothing but...austere.

So much for the Earlybird, when their gazes are blurred.


Because a thousand one-word filters are quiet.

They cannot say anything.

They have no burden of proof; 

They can’t say anything about the two teenagers 

because the vignette is blurred and they’re just silhouettes on the roof 

They cannot admit a flaw,

Bring themselves to draw the scar on his jaw and

Somehow they missed white labyrinth ridges on her wrists.

They cannot touch his grin when it begins in the eyes. 

They don’t catch her laughter when they chase after disguise

The vintage they fake doesn’t tell the years that have passed

How it took one shot to his chest, to have twenty-one recast.

They don’t tell the tears she alone shed in time, 

or the #ThrowBackThursday line. 

Because no matter how artsy they try to be

It’s no longer our story--you and me.

This poem is about: 
My family


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