Kenyon Rose

January 27, 2001 - California
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Green Eyes

I have his eyes,
I have his hair,
I have his scars,
and I had his bruises
that I practiced covering
in the mirror.

When I see him in the mirror –
transfixed by eyes
that stop me from finding cover –
my neck is pierced by hairs
as my fingers trace distant bruises
and faded scars.

I remember him before the scars –
memories through a broken mirror
of making bread from bananas with bruises,
of still finding comfort in his eyes,
of climbing his body while pulling his hair,
of hiding for fun under the covers –

but then he blew his cover.
Hate lurched from his scars,
his love fell out like hair,
and he oozed from the cracks in the mirror
where he found his own father's eyes
and chose to pass on the bruises.

I have outlived his bruises,
but I know I'll be covered
in his green eyes
and lesions and scars
and find him in my mirror
seeping into my body through my hair.

I did not choose this hair,
and I did not deserve those bruises;
as I practice these words in the mirror,
I see myself emerge from the cover
of hidden memories and forgotten scars;
and I start to see myself in my eyes.
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