i was born blind:
i fumbled with
my comprehension
letting it ooze through my fingers
like the play dough
that swam in the aging lines of my hands
and could be found dried up
mingling in between the secrets of
my grouting
avoidance was welcomed by distance.
What was left untouched
stayed impalpable to my brain
Where there was pain i was out of sight

when they told me i was beautiful
i didn’t question their authority
because what i saw of myself
was a reflection of my intellectuality
i felt the way my fingers folded through
my hair
and that’s how i decided to feel about myself
soft and loved

My eyes grew shaded by the simplicity of
black and white
which held its controversies concealed inside a wrapped present,
which arrived
with all my other birthday presents that year.
With the gift of vision
I was cursed
I was crowned with the power to
differentiate, dissect, dilute, dispose
of my purity.
This knowledge came
like a yearly visit to the doctor,
but it infected instead of wrapping
all of my loose ends in an fresh ace bandage
it was as lost as my metrocard,
which is floating freely
in the filth of the subways never ending intermingling paths.

When they told me I was beautiful,
I turned in the direction of my frameless mirror
swinging on back of my bedroom door,
My door stayed open often.
Not so I could be reminded of the melody
that slides in the molding of my house,
but so I could be blind again:
just for a moment

My eyesight proceeds to neutralize
following the path into normality.
I was no longer “special”
My eyes now cling
to the curves and colors of humanity.
Just like everyone else’s.

I remind myself
I was born blind but
If this is coming of age
I want to go back.