A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

You feel alone.
This solitude is one no amount of company can banish.
It pervades each nook of your body,
reaching out from the depths of your being.

You cry alone.
Silent, crimson tears in the empty darkness.
The cold acuity of the blade on your warm skin
comforts as nothing else ever has.

You bleed alone.
The scars that form are a map
of where you have traveled, alone.
They are a reminder of the canyons of hell
through which you have stumbled,
lost and alone.
You are fond of your scars,
markers of that now-familiar territory,
and as you trace them with your fingers
it is almost a caress.
With them you are not alone.
They have been your companions
through the long dark nights.
You see them as old friends,
whose love is constant,
whose loyalty is assured.
You do not, can not, will not see
that they are false friends who tell you lies.

You are not alone.
Another hand traces your scars
with a tenderness you would not have expected.
The unspoken message is of understanding, of acceptance,
of the deep love of true friendship.
The touch imparts hope that you had never dared
to entertain, that you are not sure is real, even now.
The hand can offer no guarantee,
except that it will be there,
holding yours,
without fail.
The journey ahead is long,
the way is dark and dangerous,
but you are not alone.