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Jan 8
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,

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.
Written by
Sav  26/F
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