She stared me down
and mapped cities around
my cheeks and eyes,
trying figure out how old
I was. Thinking I must
be older than I am,
she didn’t understand
the truth of skin and sun,
of smile lines and laughter,
of how sadness too
draws its history
in creased figures on the lips,
and I feel embarrassed,
I wish I had Prince Charming skin,
always smooth, always reflecting,
but I don’t, I wear my life
and can’t hide a thing,
not even the moments
of fear and desire,
of days in the sun and
the times I smoked too much,
tears for death and birth,
and then more for love and kindness,
all there, just there
giving more than I deserve,
showing wisdom and time
on a soul that’s much too young,
but it’s enough, she just stares
and wonders and decides
I’m must be old, just an artifact.
