"The Me Who Doesn’t Exist"

A poem by Rowan Gladish.

How odd it is

that we don't bury

the people we used to be.

No way to mourn

the us we lost

at least not formally.

I often wonder

if she would be proud

of who I turned out to be.

Honestly I don't think

the past versions of myself

would care at all for me.

She never would have thought

that I would be so cold

that I would never see all of her friends.

But she's gone, unburied, forgotten

she never really existed

or at least I can pretend.

And then she's there

somewhere in the future

where I am nobody.

I wonder if I'd

be proud of her

or if she misses me. ▲

Rowan Gladish is a 21 year-old author of fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry. She

spends her evenings reading and writing, when she’s not distracted by her keyboard-obsessed cat or catching up on Netflix. Rowan lives in London, Ontario, and is currently completing a degree in criminology.