When you look at me,
you don't see the almost-scars
where I hesitated too long
to erase them under my skin.

You're not paying attention to the
staples beneath my fingernails
or the sutures behind my smile;
is it easier not to see?

If you could ask me,
I wouldn't deny any of it;
the telltale zigzag stitches
can't be lied away.

If you knew, would you
pick out the tiny incisions
that completely belie all the
screwed together bones below?

I suppose it's simpler to ignore
all the imperfections than to
acknowledge that you'll never
be able to fix me.

Can you overlook the butterfly tape
and band-aid patches
that hold together all the little
rips and tears in me?