Shed

If I am a new creation,
why do I sometimes feel so old,
bones brittle with the memories
of who I was the last time
I walked the earth,
In the same feet
I’m wearing now?
I’m expected to shed that life–
my old life–
like a dried-out skin.
But it’s not that easy,
Is it?
Because lives are more
than flaking cells,
turning to dust and
settling on the mantelpiece
to be wiped away when
you get sick
of looking at the mess.
Lives
have people in them
and smiles
that crinkle the corners of eyes,
laughing without laughing.
Lives are stocked
with everyday wonders
and what-ifs
and missteps
and regret.

Regret is the skin
I can’t bear to shed.