Red ink flowed from my pubescent wrists

like a waterfall, leaving behind bumps

of braille on my skin, an incomprehensible

story of self hatred and a sadness as constant

as the perpetual bullying, hidden behind

long sleeves and bulky bracelets. Years later

Red ink flows from my pen like a river, depositing

passion in the banks, while sadness glides

through the turbine, leaving behind stanzas

on the page and creating new energy

and power with each line, the scars

a reminder of how far I have come.