Stories

I shook a blind man’s hand once,

And he read my skin like Braille.

The calluses and palm creases

But also

The fault lines and healed sorrows

No longer visible to the naked eye

Byproducts of an internal fight

Finally resolved.

He read my rough draft:

The one I wrote before I found my voice

Before I knew pens and paper and purpose

Could be used for storytelling.

So for those of you who read with your eyes:

Here is my final copy.