You cut me while I clean your wounds, over and over, this cycle resumes. Your jagged shards pierce through my hands as I try to dress the scars your anger brands.
With each tender balm and bandage applied,
I think "This time, the hurting subsides." Yet like a viper's fangs, your rage strikes anew leaving me to mend both your gashes and mine too. You seem to crave this deranged role-reversal, where I'm the one left wincing from your brutal verse. As if my selfless tending enrages something deep, causing your demons to cut, that their shadows may keep. So I absorb the lashings, the glints of anguish in your eyes, allowing myself to be sacrificed upon the altars of your cries. Offering my warmth and care as a balm for the disease, only to find I've infected my own heart with each feverish appease. Deep down, I think I believe if I can heal you whole, it might stanch these self-inflicted wounds upon my soul. But as I bind each other's lacerations with patient care, your mouth only splits wider, feeding on love's despair. Still you expect me to stay, to stand and suffer your strife, as some demented admission fee to preserve your life. But I'm no martyr, despite my bindings and sutures, to forever be your sheath against hurt's sharpened lusters. For how many times must I sterilize the knives you turn on me, before finally refusing to nurse one more self-inflicted injury? When will I learn to turn my salving hands upon my own, and undo the tethers leaving me forever hurt and hemmed?
YOU ARE READING
Penny for a Poem
PoesíaI just write what I see in others or feel, leave your thoughts. If you have any feelings you'd like me to write out lemme know
