I See Me
I don’t like to see me.
I remember nights of towels
to catch,
blankets
to cover
over mirrors
so I couldn’t.
Catch.
A glimpse was too much.
Not the body.
Not the deeper.
I couldn’t see.
Loving someone makes
us see.
Us.
Not them.
Me.
The beauty of
the ugly.
What we look past
In our own selves.
To them, visible, a
downy, perfected smooth
under a touch,
when all we see,
feel,
know,
are the raised ridges of the scars
If I was looking,
they were looking,
each other in the eyes,
of the same height.
I could stand
the emotional
discrepancy.
But when the physical difference
is a matter of inches
and the year displacement
is thirty,
and it’s your own child,
at once
you don’t see your faults
Flaws
Mis-steps
Fuck ups,
because they’re not
exclusively yours now.
They’re shared in miniature,
not as boulder-ous,
overwhelming,
monstrous,
as yours.
But they’re still yours.
And now.
They’re his.
He has your eyes.
Your dance.
Your heart
And you see
what the
ones who looked in your eyes,
at your height,
saw..
Your insecurity.
Your give up at a glance.
Your blame and accuse.
Your drive to be
without
because trying
again
Is too hard.
Yours.
Now his.
And you can’t take them back.
He yells and stomps like you.
He hurts.
With the pain you know.
Both.
I see me,
in him.
I did that.
That’s what I’m meant,
forced, to see.
He sees me,
And knows.
I don’t want him to know that.
I don’t want him to see.
But he sees me.
I see me.
I want him
to see.
Better.