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,

early on,

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.