veins in my hand stand out
making skin a stained glass window,
the veins connective metal holding glass together
so that light color and beauty can shine through.
i seek to hide my scars;
the stories that decorate my skin,
all the history: hurt pain love and fear
the fire of a neuron,
the composition of a cell,
sources below that sing from well
springs of intuition,
tinged with recognition,
of something familiar...
if i can remember,
why can't you?