“I’m surprised that’s the first thing you’d change,”
you tell me over the phone,
miles apart.

You’re referring to the bruises,
large black blooms around my
thighs, knees, calves

Souvenirs from the injections–
hundreds of needles
collapsing years of insecurity
and the thin spider webs,
the tiny purple rivulets,
that used to wind their way
across my skin.

“Now that you’ve ruined the moment”
you say, in the moment,
ruining more than I ever could when,
pants off,
I first explained the sight.

“What would you have me change first?”
I ask

“I don’t know. Your vision – get rid of the glasses and wear contacts.
Dress sexier.”

Why didn’t you just say
exactly what you meant
Which is to say that I must change all of me
it all must go
everything is wrong
and I am not worthy of your love

it would have been better
and closer to the truth