They don’t really think she needs
More than what she gets.
They think she’s weird –
A pretty entertainer lacking a care.
It’s hard to believe streams once gurgled with her tears.
Now, so taken with comforting
They forget the route to the exit of her soul.
She isn’t loveless,
Just loved too subtly.
Her ‘funny bone’ gives support to those weighed down by glum reality,
Gets them standing again
On sturdy hopes, starry dreams;
Their burdens are attractive, pulling by the teeth
as forgotten stand the ones the mirror greets with.
So all is borne; internalized versions of vulnerability,
Until there is less room to house any with her name on it.
Most see gifts but few see the giver
That blends alien and familiar
(puts the human in E.T)
Maybe just as needy as the average person:
Open to hugs, kisses…
Subject to cuts and bruises.
Her tears, no less salty.
Her body, equally welcome to holding.
Perhaps those whites guarded by strips of red
Are such appealing distractions that
none notice the darker shade fluidly escaping
So fresh gashes are treated like fading hurts on phantom limbs.
It is not matyrdom, she forgets to complain
because there is beauty and joy in offering healing
at no obvious gain.
Their peace is therapy for if they cease hurting so will she;
“Gifts demanding payment are credit-made sales…
Do not taint it.”
She is human
But there’ll be no request for returns.
She’ll give, give and give
Until she isn’t anymore.
© Kwiksie, 2017.