Don’t feel so silent with your radioactive eyes,
bleeding though to brighter somedays.
You can list our futures with peach stains and lullabies
but he won’t notice your perfection
in sliding unseen and tagging along
with locomotion and skinny legs and all.
He won’t notice your teenage glances that worked wonders
fifteen years ago,
sly as silk walking past and past the boys
with the indoor sunglasses
and jeans cuffed just right.
He will notice your wit,
and the things your mother explained,
that a good boy should notice.
He won’t notice the curve of your hips and
the tattoo gliding over your shoulders,
not nearly pointed enough.
The arch of your back from cold hands
or a simple disposition.
He will notice it in her.
But not in you.