Your sigh is deep, you bleat your woes,
dump them at my feet
expecting me to pick them up
and hand them back, all fixed.
Something in the line of jaw,
desperation in your eye,
that carries age-old, deep-set wounds
I can never hope to heal.
I protect my ego’s sacred part
from your needy, devouring stare
forcing me responsible
for making you feel whole.
If I do that, it’s me who’s sucked
of life’s enduring force.
I trust that you can find within
a healing, hopeful resource.
You’re waiting for me to say the ‘right’ thing
while doing nothing yourself,
except switching off every light in the room,
shuttering your self from earth.
What sits in your impatient pockets
is an urge to cover your scars.
You expect me to be your fairy truth
and to wave a wand of stars.
But my truth is, honestly, more like the moon:
a beam in the night field of doom.
Take your needs, your pitiful looks:
sit, and transform them alone.