There was always mischief in my round eyes,
but the curls in my hair
when the big eyes dropped off
from the news on TV —
my mother no longer allowed me to watch.
With a flick of her wrist,
we’d watch trivia.
To my frown, she would say,
“I know that made you sad, but the best
way to get through it is to
fake it, till you make it.”
When I faked it, I felt it, and if I felt it,
it couldn’t be fake.
She built me with genuine bones,
and the adage translated to us as,
“Act it, and you shall feel it,”
and I held onto that belief
until my eyes were more proportionate
to the roundness in my face,
the curls soften the
of a bad repair,
where the broken pieces didn’t quite fit
the same way
as they once did.
Maybe it’s the added
I’m allergic to artificial.
You can melt it with a small match,
but I’ll take Grand Gestures
for 1000 please.