I asked my mother once
how I was made. Imagining
then, that my outsides
a single sheet of flesh
sewn near the elbows,
behind the knees
in places
I could not see.

I did not know
of science, biology,
cosmetology; the anatomy
of how things worked.
Instead, I dreamed
of great craftsmen,
who with their hands
built blood and bone,
and with their eyes
saw the things
I could not see.

I still do not believe
in veins, capillaries,
wrinkles of thought running
across my skin
because I think back
to days when i wished
for answers
on eyelashes and petals
the color of bleeding,
and remember
what it was like
to look into the darkness
and wonder what
I could not see.

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