The Truth About Tigers

Flipping through the journal
feels like trespassing
in a dead man’s thoughts,
ink pressed into pages
by a boy I barely recognize.

His doubts, his defiance,
once sharp as broken glass,
now worn smooth by time.
Familiar,
but far enough away
to study without flinching.

Words that once felt urgent
read differently now—
evidence of a young mind convinced
everything needed saving,
that memory alone
wouldn’t be enough.