Confidence

Whenever we played ghost in the graveyard,

I always let you win.

I could hold still forever,

but I took greater delight in your victory smile.

You wrote a poem about the moon once.

I told you it was my favorite, even though it wasn’t.

I told you it was great, even though

your handwriting was too messy to read

and I knew the moon didn’t have an “off” switch.

You scribbled stick figures on my drawings,

flicked peas off the back porch,

and danced obliviously out of sync with the music,

when I tried to show you pliés.

I said you were an artist,

an excellent shot,

a prima ballerina.

Slowly, you started to believe in yourself,

almost as much I believed in you.

But just like when you needed me to tell you that

sometimes God forgets

to turn off the moon during the day

and that your friends were all liars,

because (clearly) the off switch was on

the other side, and you just couldn’t see it from here,

I need you to believe in me too.