Dirty Lenses

Sometimes, whilst cleaning my glasses, I think about how when I put them on I’ll be a white guy, aged 22 years, with glasses. It’s like they’ll never know I dropped out of college. It’s like they’ll never know that although I do love to read long works of historical and/or classical fiction, I also enjoy comic books and children’s cartoons. It’s like they’ll never know that I’ve been rhyming since middle school and have in fact gotten half-decent at spitting a verse or two. It’s like they’ll never know I spent two months sleeping in my car last fall. It’s like they’ll never know I’m more than some white guy, aged 22 years, with glasses, but I could go on.

I could go on assuming that other people make as shallow assumptions about me as I do about them even though I know my backstory in and out and yet with others I’m only window shopping. Maybe I’m the one who’s too cheap to even try their shoes on, much less walk a mile behind a stranger’s dirty lenses.