You tell me, “Go away. I don’t want you to see this.”
I stay, with antibiotic cream and bandages
and hospital tape that never holds for long.
I want to scream for you to believe me,
as I tend wounds and let you spit out your hurt,
that you deserve a life of happiness and peace.
It aches in old wounds long scarred over
to see the angry crimson of bloody scrapes,
and in my throat, where the lump of sorrow forms.
You have such a marvelous mind, clever wit,
caring heart, powerful voice, strong spirit—
but you cling to this demon and cannot know them.
My arm around your shaking shoulders does little,
except remind you that you are not alone,
but I wonder sometimes if you even feel its presence.
If all I can do is be there with bandages and soft words,
for the scant, fleeting time you are under my care,
I will do it and hope my comfort can soothe.
For your sake, though, I wish with all my heart
you could borrow my vision just for a moment,
and see yourself as you are, deserving of
so much better, so much more.
