Alone

The Oration Of My Flesh

Scars are the orators of my spirit.
Bruises paint on me like art.
They play a role for me,
A leading part.

Look at my bones.
Look at my soul.
Can you hear it's screams?
Listen to each ache and groan.

What is it you see as I quiver?
Am I even real?
Am I cold and brittle or soft to touch?
Explain what it is as you feel.

If you were blind, much so as you are now,
And if my skin was Braille
What is it you'd learn from it?
Tell me the tale.

Every bump is a word.
Each newly formed shape is a part of me.
When you touch them,
What do you realize you still have yet to see?

Perhaps I'm a puzzle,
Making my body's map aesthetic.
Or is it something so very different?
Perhaps I'm simply just pathetic.

Tell me, for like you, I'm blind.
Recite the song of my body's story.
Who am I?
Tell all of how my flesh is truly gory.

Perhaps you understand.
Maybe you still can't comprehend.
If you have grasped no take away,
Then I was nothing important in the end.