You don’t see my sisters.
You don’t see my mom, my dad, my grandmama.
You don’t see dozens of cousins, aunts and uncles (all well-loved).

You don’t see a small town in Alabama.
You don’t see the mountains of North Carolina.
You don’t see Florida (two counties, three houses).

You don’t see the Air Force.
You don’t see a father, constantly taken and returned.

You don’t see six schools in six years.
You don’t see open hands pushing.
You don’t see fists punching.
You don’t see bruises shaped like hands.
You don’t see your own hands hitting without your permission.
You don’t see an insincere apology.

You don’t see stories.
You don’t see ideas in my head.
You don’t see the worlds I create.

That’s what I see, when I look at me.

You see the book in front of my face,
You see a perfect FCAT.
You see blue eyes.
You see brown eyes.
My eyes are green.
You don’t see me at all.