I see the white lines on her shoulders,
little ridges covered in snow,
and I know
you don't get scars like those
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.