by Amanda DeLalla
What do you see, my dear?
When you look into my eyes,
Am I sensing your fear?
Could you tell me lies?
What do you see, sweet boy?
Someone who you could adore?
Or perhaps you see merely a toy,
You can put aside once you’re bored?
What holds you back, my dear?
Why don’t you feel so free?
Is your reflection what you’re afraid to get near?
Or are you ashamed of me?
They say that one’s worth should come from within.
Some have trouble adhering to that.
If I tell myself I have thick skin,
My dear, why do I ask what you’re looking at?