Not once had I ever
taken the time
to peer at myself
to see what I'd find.
Gazing deep into wild eyes
I saw:
haunted, tortured, lost.
Nothing but fragments of a jigsaw girl,
so I put the pieces together
and saw beyond hell.
Her skin glowed with hope,
it clung to the hairs on her face;
pink puckered lips, waiting
waiting.
How else to say the decorations were framed
by wolfish, devilish brows?
Fitting the puzzle together
the picture revealed itself:
this baby-faced beaut
this sweet naïve portrait
not a patchwork mock-up of past relatives
(the essence of mother, father, cousins,
dearly departed gran)
but a fully formed singularity
a person within herself,
somebody living
breathing
thinking
over-thinking
doubting.
She can make her own choices, her own mistakes
alive for herself and,
though not always aware,
the propensity for greatness resides in her
a constant constantly there.
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