I look at what I’ve done with myself and think of what you see when you look at me. I don’t always see great things when I look at me. When I look at what I’ve done with the life given me.
I search your face and sometimes wonder, “what are your eyes seeing?”
I don’t want to know the answer, in case it turns out to be true, that you don’t think much of me.
When you glance at other people with those same eyes, do your eyes sparkle with joy? Do they become dull and dim when they see me?
It would mean everything if I knew you sparkled when you looked at me. If you looked at me and thought, “now there’s someone who is capable of great things. There’s someone who will do wonders.”
I would rather not know what you think. I would rather not ask, in case it turns out my fear is true…you are ashamed of me. The ironic thing is that, if it turned out you were proud of me, and you told me there’s nothing I wouldn’t do, then there is no dream I wouldn’t aim to reach.