My fingertips dance along your scars,
the ones I made and the ones you
     caused.
'Truth' still shines faintly on your
     wrist,
from the night you lied and threw a
     fit.

This one right here, I stabbed you with
     keys.
You threw me from the porch and
     realized I do bleed.
Years of venom and violence abruptly
     halted,
little eyes and ears blissfully
     disrupted.

Though your tone gets sharp and
     patience short,
and I pray every day to not become
     what we were,
in the quiet when there's only beating
     hearts,
slow breathing and staring into the
     dark,

tracing your scars as my own begin to
     sting,
that passion and pain from the past
     begins to sing,
serenading and calling me home.
Then tiny hands reach and I only hear
     the sweet call of 'mom.'

To be around those who have suffered
and made it out alive and beautiful
and with a soul which sings, to see someone more beautiful than art, to see when someone is connected to the world as they are with their own body and are able to water it with life and watch it slowly grow, to see reality of life through their eyes and from their voice, and to get pulled into their secret little room, that they can always go hide away in; The place where their madness is able to roam freely and explore and learn and exist without interference.

That is true beauty, that is being alive, that is everything most meaningful