You say I can't understand your
scars, but I do. They are the
archaeology of your soul as you
wrote in language without words, not
knowing how to cope with the
monsoons of your mind. I feel you as
contours of an ancient cave, your texture
rough, indents that foreshadow tragedies.
You are hieroglyphics that haven't been
decoded yet, as I try to understand
the raised bumps and cool creases
between the walls. You paint your
skin with velvet pens that are softer
and more delicate than the cashmere
sweaters I knitted for you, when my
knuckles cracked against poetry spines
and crescents moons that scraped
my heart like a nostalgic needle point
blade.
Your voice is swallowing bricks, you've
confiscated all means of communication -
as I feel the grit between your teeth,
chewing tobacco and cracked lips because
you thought winter was glued to your back.
You are the rugged terrain I never had
enough faith to walk on, my feet
a sword in a stone.
These scars will become smooth; your
skin will be made of feathers instead of
limestone and nails.
You will feel like summer breezes and
warm, smooth pavement, instead of
the stalactites that pierce your soul.
-
Written from Mel's prompt about touch.
*title means "Language of the soul"
