I convinced myself that when you looked at me,
you didn’t see the marbled texture of my thighs,
my valleys and hills of tissue,
the shark’s teeth that lined my bottom jaw.
I hoped that your eyes would look somewhere else –
to my intelligence or beautiful wit or caring nature,
only loving the things I could not see.
I convinced myself that your eyes
did not see what I see –
and honey, that was the death of me.