tiny lil

scars all over her

    arms and legs

she carries them so well

i forget sometimes that i know they're

             there

when she reaches for me

         and i glance

the lamp shade tilts with my eyes

revealing a hundred solutions neatly healed on the softest parts of her skin.

a trillion alternate endings

        of how pens don't bleed like razors

and I tell her that I understand

because I believe that they do

each syllable starts with a prick

each line pouring it's heart out

stanzas spaced just in case

there needs to be another incision

and there always is

hidden somewhere

within the pages