A woman came in
and read me like a book.
Taking in each piece
of ink,
of scar,
of flesh,
that is stained.
She read me like a sapphic poem,
dissecting the inner meaning of;
each line,
each dollop,
each stroke.
She looked at me as if I were sheet music,
Deciphering
the vibrato,
the crescendos.
I bask in this newfound admiration.
Allowing her to peer into my soul,
and make sense of the marks
on my skin.