It was the eyes.
The eyes that first drew me in, as they went back and forth
back and forth,
back and forth.
Never ceasing, never pausing.
Line by line, down my body as they observed me.
As the eyes craved to see me and understand me;
But not me, not the real me.
Because though they were staring intently at me
and watching me from left to right, left to right
It wasn't me they were seeing in their mind's eye.
The eyes observed me, and somewhere in the translation,
The optic nerves produced a picture of something quite different.

The hands. Oh! The hands.
That held me, and stroked me as they moved through me
Gently touching me, holding me, and loving me.
They were firm and sure: I was safe in these hands.
I was not these hands' first, nor will I be their last.
But for now: I am theirs, and I don't care what will happen next.

I can never express how much you mean to me,
you who see and study me, but never know me.
You will understand my clothes of ink,
Cry over the character my clothes produce
And fall in love with my fabric of words.
It is the burden I bear:
to be the carrier of heartbreak and sorrow
anger and rage
laughter and love
But to never receive these emotions in return.
Not for me: not for the blank pages of myself.