VOICES ON THE INSIDE

I’ve needed thick glasses since I was seven.
Through these broken eyes everything’s always imperfect.
Just a little blurry, softly smudged around the edges,
Open to my interpretation.

I use all my senses to compensate, paying special attention
To what I hear, counting steps, feeling my way around.
More keenly aware when I get up close to memorize,
Or I use my imagination to fill in the details.

I don’t recognize faces from a distance,
But I remember a person’s peculiarities:
Their walk, the way they carry themselves, their being.
I see beyond the surface to the essence.

I can’t see my own face clearly without glasses.
I’m blissfully unaware of the grey hairs and blemishes in the mirror.
In my mind my reflection looks fine.
I am always shocked when I see pictures of myself.
Is that what I really look like?

I carry this state of mind into the other parts of my life.
I’m not surprised when things aren’t what they initially seem.
I don’t trust first impressions. I appreciate a bit of mystery.
It’s OK when things are out of focus.
Life is imperfect, like these broken eyes.