Inked

My hands are circuit boards, lines inked like solder

to connect all the dots. A map of who I am

woven into a cloak so you can’t see me at all

unless I show you the route with red marker.

You might not want to look past my shield,

sometimes I don’t want you to, either.

It’s when I break down without knowing,

becoming still and silent, a signpost to nowhere,

that I need you to see. The me behind it all.