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Poetry

turn away and don’t see

the scars cradled ‘round

my pale skin, little etches

that tell of a time best left

forgotten in a puddle lost

to some wayward era,

back when I thought I knew

myself and hated everything

that composed these bones

but you held out your hand,

fingers trembling inch by inch

as you traced lines and circles

across the vulnerable pieces

that lay open on display, and

I sucked in a breath so deep

that I thought I might break

apart, exposed to the first

hint of sunlight in a while

your fingertips question me

with every loop and shape,

until I whisper that I can’t be

what you need me to be,

yet I can hear the smile

in your voice that says,

“take your time, no rush,”

till I wonder if it can really

ever be as simple as that

Originally published at https://vocal.media.