i may be myopic, cloud-eyed, partially blind. i may be invisible—sight surpassing sharp eyes except a few, who bid me bet on success as if it has already knocked on their doors. they write me in braille of all the awesomeness i ooze, speak loud and soft quintessential i-love-yous. i nitpick compliments, hug disparagements. i lay unsmoothened in hair and plunder of all, ungroomed, unkempt, untamed, on a sheet and silent at hand. so what are they proud of? i slide this buzz into fog and fodder, charred coal begs to utter—what i owe when i am alone and the lights are out, windows rattling under the moon’s growls. i may like myself a little here. Where no sound wrestles a voice, i forget her, holding the letter close; this is where i learn to spell pride in braille.