Ballad

My paper skin is pale and thin, A canvas for my lonely ache, So with a silver splinter-pin, A private promise I do make. My blood runs out, a cherry ink, Upon my arm, my thigh, my breast, And of your quiet strength I think, And draw what I can't speak confessed. I do not write a simple name, Or carve a silly, artless heart. I draw our madness, frame by frame, A strange and secret work of art. A screaming gear upon my knee, A fractured teacup on my wrist. A map of ruin, just for thee, A love letter in crimson mist. You do not chide or look away, You read the language of the sore. You trace the lines and seem to say, "My darling, tell me something more." Your gentle hands then tend the wound, The truest love I've ever found.