i am a body composed entirely of braille:
countless stories ingrained into my bones like
magic scripture that only the chosen one can read.
a blinded man with silver eyes that shine like light
reaches through my skin with a gentleness like
a childhood home. it’s warm and safe, but there are
secrets there; i can fall asleep in those conditions,
if i let myself. the darkest of rooms hide the deepest of
secrets, but he always likes a challenge as his fingertips
glide over the tiny bumps, reading and comprehending
all that i was incapable of showing, of even knowing.
this was never my strong suit, and he’s a bookworm,
hungry for the knowledge a hundred men before him
have bartered for, paid for, bowed down on their knees for.
i could commend him, but i am afraid of inflating an ego,
even if it is shriveled up next…
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