The looks of our children
combination of both our positives and negatives
from our different points of view
raised in the mixing of our worlds
the stance where it becomes their own
a product gaining independence
and the ability to be recognized for its uniqueness
not as a mix
but as a new form
were similarities may be found
maybe it gained your eyes
the ones I get lost in
or perhaps my smile
the one you so often bring to life
but their words remain true to their soul
in the hope of finding its match
the one to spark the cycle anew
creating the unique once more

Mom says I’ve gotten colder with the years,
But weirdly, I’m flooded with emotions.
And somehow, the big sobs in my childhood bed
Can’t compare to the stray tears that fall from my adult eyes.
My feelings have grown with my body,
But have also been shoved in it,
Engraved in my soul,
Yet still, not in my words.
Maybe I’ve grown accustomed to that shell—
It feels safe,
It gives comfort,
More so when vulnerability feels like punishment,
Opening up, like a crime.
And when burying it all gives relief,
Temporary or not,
Fighting still feels better than giving in.

I’m always forgotten because I’m never known.
They see me and my concept,
what they believe it is,
but they do not take the time to know me,
my insides and fillings,
my laughs and tears,
my thoughts and words.
I’m always forgotten because they never care enough to notice my light,
or my lack of one.
Superficial gifts and smiles
all at once in one Christmas night.
I’m always forgotten in their brains,
like tasks that no one wants to do,
a person no one wants to know.

Closer to new years now.
I’m always forgotten over the summer.
I exist,
lax and blurry,
because they don’t remember me if they don’t see me.
Every person creates a different image,
except no one actually knows me.
They just see.
They watch.
They imagine.
And they create.
Me,
in their brains.
But its not me anymore,
because a me doesn’t exist in anyone’s mind.
Not even mine.