Don’t call me beautiful,”
And most sincerely.
“I’m not beautiful, not yet.”
I look at you
Past the featherless scalds in your velvet wings
Past your dull, hell-bent halo with but a faint glimmer surviving
And into your eyes.
I see the hate and hurt in your flexing pupils
And try to protect you from seeing the same things in my own
Though I shouldn’t worry - your eyes are blind
Blind to what you’ve done to yourself, and
Blind to what you’ve done to me.
And I whisper for the thousandth time today
Patiently, stolidly still:
“No, you are.”
And I will say it a thousand more times
As I sit here
Holding your limp head in my lap
And stroking your stale hair
Because you need to hear it
You need to know your (swan) song is heard.
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