Fingers stealing over skin
Smooth and coarse and scarred.
Fingers pausing over memories
Faded and fierce and lingering.

The childhood game
Of find the shapes in the clouds
Takes on a new medium
As her eyes scan
The mottled surface of my arm.

And a child's innocence
Becomes my latest quest to protect.
This ***** eared child
Who so readily accepts
This woman's lighthearted recounts
Of the dark fairytale she lived.

But even children are wise,
And this one beyond her short years.
"It's funny," she says
With all the wisdom of her eight years of life,
"None of your stories are...pleasant...
Or...light."

Fingers caress the patchwork of scars.
Fingers rub at the raised knots of skin.
Fingers that once held the blade
That marked and marred.

How do you tell a child
That monsters are real
But they don't live in the closet
Or under their beds?

How do you tell a child
That monsters are real
And they dwell in the dark
Depths of the human soul?

How do you tell a child
Who already knows
And yet maintains her innocence?

Where are the words
To allay my own fears?
Do I even possess the voice
To utter them?

These scars, not all but most,
Were made by my hand, you see.

I held the blade,
So I could control the pain.
I held the blade
That prolonged my suffering.
I held the blade
Because it made me powerful.
I held the blade
So no one else could.
I held the blade...

Because I wanted to.

I wonder if she's old enough to say,
"Yes, but you also let go."

I wonder if even I am old enough
To know
That I let go.