Do you know me? I believe that you think you do.
I just pulled out in front of you and you swerved around me; I bet I know what you were thinking. You didn't look over at me, but just the way you were gripping the steering wheel, staring straight ahead--been there. I swear to the Lord above I checked five times, but I guess I couldn't see you through the tears I was crying. You're not the only one that cries, lady.
Do you know me? Because you just walked by me like maybe you couldn't see me, pushing this shopping cart, asking for pop cans. I don't know how I got here, either, lady.
Can you hear me? Because I've asked you the same question about one hundred times today, mom, and most of the time, it's gone unanswered, other times, your answer, "What"? stings. It doesn't sound like the "I love you" that I usually get.
Did I offend you? Because when I came toward you and your daughter, holding out my hands, the look of terror on your face shocked me. I know I appeared tipsy, but actually, as my friend explained, just disabled. I know my words sounded frightening while calculating the pace I was coming at you, but, she was so cute, your baby. You're lucky, lady. I won't be having any babies of my own.
Did we fail you? Today you looked at us with disgust when you pinched your thighs. We've upheld you through a lot, you know. What does a little jiggle matter when we still work, hard, each day for you. And those stretch marks? Remember what your o.b. told you? How each day he saw women that would kill to be able to be pregnant and get those things? Remember that?
Dear God, please forgive me.