The ridges of my scars are easy to trace
Bumps and bruises are the very code of my past.
Feather your digits
Across the Braille of my skin.
From
That violent violet patch of skin
A direct result from the day
Mother screamed after me as
I pitched and tumbled off my bike
To
The barely there, white imprints
Of the blades that lazily drifted
Across my wrists, stomach and thighs.
One touch to
Feel
Read
Know
Me.




(K.R.S)