You’re Okay

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 to me, sort of like a red balloon.
i don’t want him to fly away; insecurities will do that soon enough.
he keeps reminding me of my childhood:
the sincerity of laughter, the accidental smile,
the aching sides from too much tickling and sticky lips, coated
from too many sweet foods. i could kiss him a hundred times
in gratitude for deciphering my messages without asking
for more information because, for once, what i have to
offer is finally enough. there is no need for more,
just the hope to comprehend what is already there, and
the boundaries are accepted like written law. grateful
cannot encapsulate the importance of the moment
when he dug his hands out of me and wrote the message
openly on my skin in clear ink. he doesn’t say the words
out loud, but i can hear him as clear as day,
“you’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.”

Published by


30 year old New Yorker.

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