I want to know all of you.
The tiny blemishes that would be imperfections
If they marked up any other body but yours.
I want to know the stories behind your scars.
All the ones you've collected over the years
And display on your body
Like old books on a library shelf  
I need to thumb my fingers over those puckered patches
Of skin because all your books are written in braille
And I want my fingers to know those words
In ways your voice couldn't describe.
These welts of words make up the story of who you are.
I hope you will let me open you up
And I hope that after I read all of you
You will still know
That I will always kiss you as sweetly as I did before
I knew all your wounds.
Please know that I will not think you are any less pure
To me as you were before I understood.
Purity isn’t real anyway.
It’s a prison of a concept that’s made with
Bars of guilt and of shame
Keeping you trapped behind your past.
But you are not that to me.
You are my future
And even if I add to your seeming imperfections
And give you a few more scars
Be happy that when I re-read the braille books on your body
I will read about me too and how I want
Nothing more than to add to you.