You asked me what happiness was,


And I don't know.
Eyes, maybe,







Brown eyes, seeing me,
Seeing through me.
Or hands,
Not laced with self-hate,







Touching me,







Stroking
My thoughts.
Swiping







At the steamed glass
And judgmental cobwebs.
It could have been lips,







Sucking,
Covering the pain,
The pin-points holes,







With purple blankets.



Maybe I found happiness in
Taking off the mask,







Along with other things,
And being held,







Bruised skin








On







Broken skin,
Scares
Covering
Scares.



Bring venerable,



But not caring.