She tells me it is
only poetry.

It is only words
writ from her fingers
only similes and
metaphors for
the empathy she possesses
it is not her
she says
she does not
think or feel
in this noticeable way
she is not a wall
for others to break
she is not a
canvas for her own
fingers to draw upon
she is not the sun that is
blinding her
she does not look away from
herself.

She does not stare
too long
into the reflective
mirrors that do not
catalogue her
soul.

She does not stare
she tells me
she does not write
she tells me
it writes her
it consumes her
it flows from the sunlight
rays that
hit through the
blocked up
shards of her
open window

she does not
sit on the sill
and wonder

she only writes it
it is not her own
hand that curls the letters
it is not her own poetry
she tells me
it is only words
it does not
feel the
way she
does.

She tells me
she has not written
herself
onto a page
has no blood
or tears
imprinted
upon those
leafs of
paper.

I know
if I
were to pull
up her
sleeve
I would
find
scars.

She tells me
it is only
a poem.