I wish it wasn’t awkward to be honest.
I wish it wasn’t. I wish words were fingers.
I wish the world was this forgiving space
where feelings aren’t strange.
I wish I could tell you how I ran from mirrors.
How at twenty-one I watched my grandmother
beg to breathe her last.
Her last words to me were to take care
of a man we both loved, and couldn’t–
though we tried.
I wish I could tell you how I cried
when I finally looked at his picture
and saw my face. I promised her,
“I will be everything he wasn’t,
and everything he should have been.”
I wish I could tell you how I live every day
trying to be the man you couldn’t be.
I wish I could tell you how I miss a man
you never were. I still run from mirrors.
They remind me how beautiful…
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