I walk into a narrow entry way
where the curtains are closed in the room beyond.
I extend my hand, see their eyes, and convert it
into a pleasant, not at all unsettled wave.
hello, how do you do. it states more than asks
because no one wants to share
(even though I really did want to know)

Let's look at my strangeness,
what they call odd,
and I call "different,"
the compliment kind,
like when your parents reward your eccentricities
with boxes of crayons and plenty of paper.
color outside the paper, if you want

What happens when a little girl loved by many
grows up
and becomes a swan smeared in mud with ballet shoes,
untied, ribbons dragging behind,
occasionally tripping not only herself,
but, even worse,
all in her path.

Okay, now to return to the place where I stand,
on the threshold of acceptance and rejection.
No one wins this game, you know.
I will look at the ground, at my shoes,
then at his because what kind of writer would I be
if I didn't look at worn leather sneakers,
black laces frayed at one lace end,
and then write about them?
Who would I be if I couldn't look at a room and a pair of people,
whose curious eyes and glances burn invisible candles
to one pathetic apologetic wick?

In my mind I go back to that moment,
and I blame the clothes I chose
and the words I said and said,
how I fumbled to find a place in the playbook
of How to Please Parents.

I unbuy presents and unworry hours of trepidation.
I unsweat my palms and uncry my tears,
even though I will recry them when I find out
what I am really am,
not even a who,

to those who unsee
me.