I noticed only recently
that my eyes never meet
my own
as if some nameless
will make itself known
if my glance happens
to find itself.

Cerulean depths;
eyes that beguiled
yet defeated
any number of equally lost
and lonesome souls.
What do they hide?
Maybe a truth,
too wretched
to contain.

Perhaps it is simply that
I cannot bear to see
reflected in the glass
what they see;
what they all see, when
they look at
their eyes painting my story with
dirt and slurs,
and a blindness that makes me

I hope for just one day,
a day that
I am brave and bold, when I
dare to look myself
dead in the eye,
to hold my gaze,
how happy I will be to see

In that moment I will finally know
what it is to be loved.

True love.


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