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