Shameless

I notice the slices, then she smiles at me hesitantly, and I wonder,

is this lady a muse?

Because I find her shamelessness inspiring.

She's shameless because she's chosen to show her scars,

on arms that look like an old woman's,

the cuts so numerous they might otherwise be wrinkles,

wrinkling right up to her shoulders.

Some are thick and raging white,

some pencil marks, brushed across her skin.

Her bracelets of pain.

There's no shame in feeling shit,

she says, without speaking.

And without showing, she shows me

that grace can be a sleeveless top.