She asks me, “Do you love me?”
in a sing-song baby voice, knowing
the answer will be the same as it was
when she asked me three minutes before:
“I love you dear.”
“I love you more.”
She’s made a game of insecure, as she
tries to reconcile twelve good years
with the misshapen body she struggles
to dress, and the store-bought smile that
leaves her gum line sore.
“I love you dear.”
“I love you more.”
She wants to trust me, and almost does
at night, in the dark. But in the traitor
morning light, as she fights to tie her shoes
on twisted, scarred, unlovely feet, and
faces a mirror she tries not to see,
She asks me, “Do you love me?”