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The Healer

by Stephanie Alfaia

I will not write about you

and your broken wings.

The way your body limped tall

shoulders crawling over toes…

How the wind danced in your hair,

glazed your eyes, spread

your face into a permanent smile,

but you were too hurt

to feel any of it.

I will not tell them that you 

clutched onto my skin like

a fresh cut wound, festering,

Tingling deep inside me, moist.

How my fingertips picked at your surface

peeled, pulled, shed, bled.

How you watched me tend,

accepting any ointment disguised 

as healing words.


How can I recount of a we?

You sprawled on my bed and yet

I was too needed to see –

A mirror reflecting what you were 

unable to admire in yourself.

How my lips sucked 

the very darkness out of your soul,

you swallowed mine and somewhere 

we thought we were whole.


I do not wish to tell the tale

or I must reveal myself, you see.

The witch who hides deep in the woods.

The one who believes her power 

lies in nurturing tired passerby’s –

The laughing low spirited.

It would mean recalling every effort,

every warm stew brewed with

a need to be needed.

Alas, I am but no longer want to be 

the healer

waiting, ready to cure

another broken soul

holding a warrior’s shield.


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