I Saw You.

I saw your mother's smile.
I saw the birthmark on the inside of your thigh.
I saw the dimple on your stomach.
I saw your father's overbearing disapproval,
and I didn't mind.
I loved you too much.

I saw your shatter-the-glass marriage traditions,
and I cut myself anyway.
You laughed.
I saw you fix your coffee two sugars too sweet.

I saw your blackened, cancerous flaws,
and I kissed you would a green fog on my lips
to chase away the resentment.

I saw her mangled, aborted baby body,
her freckles,
(she had freckles and I don't)
and didn't look away even though I should.
Even though you never even saw (her/me).

Even after everything I've seen,
duct-taped together like a glass slipper,

I'm seeing you for the first time today.





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