She lingers in the light of my doorway,
With sad eyes and a broken heart.
She shows me all her wounds,
But she doesn't ask me to fix them.
She wants her heart reassembled, for she believes I'm the one who broke it.
She blames me for the marks she wears so proudly.
To her and everyone she shows, they're battle scars.
To me, they're mere paper cuts.
They sting for a little, and then fade away.
She pours salt in the wound every night to keep the cuts festering and to increase the pain.
She wants someone to throw all the hurt to.
She expects me to catch it with my bare hands,
But a load like that can't be touched with raw skin.
She wants me to break under all the suffering she's endured, even though I couldn't have inflicted it.
What she doesn't realize are the marks she put on me.
She had shredded my heart numerous times and left me broken, but I bandaged my wounds myself and carried on.
My wounds are unknown to her,
Yet she still stands in the doorway to my home.
Plain eyes and plain hair look vibrant under the porch light.
She begs without words.
Pleads without voice.
Prays without thought of my own circumstances that I'll take in her hurting load and let her stay in the light longer.
But I've been hurt,
And I can't take in another.
Her fair skin is scratched with thorns, while my hidden soul is shattered with bullet holes.
We were both attacked when we fled each other, but my war was deadlier.
My porch light flickers away with a last dying breath and she leaves the property.
