I see the likes of you
where I'm at,
among the young nurses' aids-
the same arched brows,
large watery eyes,
pouty pink lips-
the same angel face,
above the devil's heart.
Poor me,
at the age of thirteen,
perched on a cardboard box
in my parent's store,
where you worked.
You asked me why
my eyes were downcast,
told me if you had my hair
you'd kill yourself.
Called me a nuisance
to the boys in school.
I was never hideous.
The glasses, the zits, the shabby clothes
was just a phase.
My stay in the care home
is only temporary.
You, I worry about.
One day you will be old
like the patients here.
Would you still like what you see
in the mirror?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem