Fingers Crossed

If you looked at me across a crowded room,

I’d always be the first

To turn my head.

In trying to differ from I’m

Most alike them.

In the morning, I dress prepared for every call

Of yours and I never pick up

My ever-silent phone.

I run through the fires that I lit

With my fingers crossed and heart of wood;

Still, I’m just a product of whatever thing you say,

Hungry for a harvest of which the seeds I never sowed.

Don’t even try to wipe the tears

Off my rosy cheeks

They’re made for you, they’re part of the show.

And please believe that I do want to see you

Again.

But only when I am prettier,

Prettier, than the face in the bathroom mirror,

Staring back at me with scornful eyes.

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