who never saw me at all.
This is for you, ladling out poisonous "forgiveness"
when I had done no crime.
This is for you, distraught
that "no in OUR family" had ever been like me.
(Don't bet on it.)
This is for you, with the fiction of me in your head,
who never existed anyplace else.
This is for you, who would rather I suffer for a life time
so that you can feel "comfortable."
This is for you, the friends who reached out
when I was scared,
when I was sad,
when I was not at my best,
when I really needed it.
This is for you, who shared your own stories
so that I would know I was not alone.
This is for you, who loved me before, and loved me after.
This is for you, who have never known me any other way.
This is for you, watching me,
as I once watched others
for their joy
for their beauty
for their fierce belief in their own lights.
And this is for me, God's own girl,
arriving back where I began,
at peace in the passing illusion of my own skin.