Eye contact was a gamble

I learned young-
eye contact was a gamble.
Too long, and people got nervous.
Too short, and they’d think I was hiding something.
I was.

Mirrors were unkind.
They fractured me before the world had a chance. 
One eye drifting east,
the other one loyal.

Betrayal in every reflection.

I knew my angles.
How glass twisted me.
How symmetry was a privilege I would never know.

Why won’t it just look straight?

The first time I heard the word lazy,
it wasn’t about my hands,
or my legs,
or my heart.

Adults were careful. 
Careful with looking,
careful with asking,
careful with the way their pity recoiled
when they turned back around to face me,
realizing I was indeed speaking to them.

Kids weren’t so kind.

Photographers: 
“Look into the lens.”

As if I hadn’t been trying.
As if I hadn’t spent my whole life wrestling my own gaze.

At night,
I’d squeeze my eyes tight-
so tight, my nose curled.
And my cheeks hurt. 

I’d hold them there,
as if maybe, just maybe,
by morning
they would wake up
and finally agree.