Cellophane Writer

The brittle days
the times I make you crazy with me
wanting you to see me
jumping up and down
a child in your field of vision
in an age of being responsible

(I tell you I’m hiding but you always see)

sublime scars I hoped
you would take as your own
are healing
miles away
from your smoke stacks
and your yards

(I tell you I hide but you see me still)

School was something
I never wrapped my mind around
loving the books, ignored
by looks, rubber-necking around me
a barrier in the halls

(even when it hurts I want you to see me)

naked
not this sweater-covered
faux bon vivant
with a dime’s worth of sanity
just enough to keep things interesting
and your eyes with hoods still
intrigued

( you look through but not through me)

I never felt the same way later
About a butterfly with a pin through it
under glass
sacrificed for the greater good

(it can be seen, can’t it)

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