The stars shone bright, brighter than those diamond eyes of yours . . .
I might like the stars better because the stars won’t look at me the way you do.
I don’t like that look, not always. The shrug, the tilted, forced smile, and the warm eyes.
Those eyes! How I hate them!
I wish you could look at me before— before you knew about the scars I’ve decided to bear.
The stars know everything about me, yet they shine down on me the same.
So, turn those eyes to the stars, for maybe there you’ll find acceptance too, and stop—
Stop hiding from yourself, using me as your disguise.
Ded. Letting the disguise fall clean
