i.
i draw my fingers
along the scars
you used to cut
yourself, a hidden
language, like a
braille of the skin

ii.
yet, you allow me in,
gently, my fingertips
trace hungrily
your tale which you
stack in the library
of your long sleeves
even in the hottest
summer days

iii.
words never served
your purpose they
admitted no connection
although those around
you noticed that
something seemed
to bother you, you
turned to secretiveness

iv.
you started cutting
so young, too young
really, to cope with
so much change
the power of your
own feelings
overwhelmed your
defenses, stuck in
a home, unsettled
a punishment and
a release

v.
i have no answer
for you, no easy
way to overcome
the compulsions
of the heart so
wounded, but
your own strength
and growing maturity
and the control you
have obtained
all seemed to help

vi.
you suppose that
you have written
manifesto
but, i recognize,
perhaps
autobiography