I question why a beautiful boy like you would draw too,
Bold, thin red lines telling a story
Deep and ugly,
Full of hatred and guilt,
Seeping through your sleeves.
Did no one teach you
That pain, when silenced,
Finds its own voice?
That even roses bleed
When held too tightly?

I watch from close but feel so far,
Feeling guilty and lost,
Wondering what makes you draw too,
Hoping you find the end of the tunnel
Before it closes on you.

I would let you see yourself through my eyes—
That what lies beneath the scars
Are stories to come and beauty to be shown.

Let me remind you:
Your wound is not your worth.
You'll learn you don't have to bleed to be heard—
I hear you, and I’m listening.

So, with all that said,
I'll teach you my ways:
That you're not your scars,
Nor the ache that shaped them,
But a survivor of the pain
Laid out in lines,
Some short, some tall—but all the same.

So let the past bleed out in ink, not skin.
Let tomorrow find you softer, still whole.
You are not alone.
You have me.