When I was little.
I could hear wind chimes on my grandmas porch.
I could smell thanksgiving dinner and apple pie coming from the kitchen.
But I couldn’t see the board.
So my mom took me to the eye doctor.
When we left, I could see each individual brick on every individual house, every leaf on every tree. For miles.
I could see everything.
I could see the boys on the playgrounds’ faces when I told them I thought they were cute.
I didn’t know if anyone saw mine when they laughed.
I could see my teachers blindness. The way she failed to see that I wasn’t talking to disrespect her.
I was talking because my dad raised me to raise my voice.
I put my contacts in in the morning & my glasses on at night.
But I still can’t see the difference between someone who is being nice to me because they want to,
and someone who is being nice to me because they want something.
I can see my best friend crying after a boy that wasn’t worth shit told her she wasn’t worth his time.
I still can’t see the difference between people who believe in something,
and people who are too afraid to say they don’t.
I can see the difference between real flowers and plastic flowers,
but I can’t see the difference between real love and plastic love.
I can see every brick on every house and every leaf on every tree.
But I can’t see everything.