I see the white lines on her shoulders,

little ridges covered in snow,

and I know

you don't get scars like those

from accidents.

She sees I see, and meets my gaze squarely

because she is not ashamed.

I offer her my sympathies, but in truth

I wish I lived in ignorance.

I wish I didn't understand

the language tattooed on her skin,

because the reason she accepts my staring

is because she is staring too

at the red burns trickling down my wrist,

and upon my palm,

and we both know

it's no accident.

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