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.