When I saw you lying
in the bed framed with silk
of a color you never chose,
your eyes looked like pearls,
your skin pale satin,
and every strand of hair
the stem of a flower.
I saw scars on your arms-
the lines of a road map
I never followed to find
the source of your suffering.
I saw the picture of innocence
you sketched for me on one
of the many days I wasn't listening.
I had no idea it was meant to be
a self-portrait.