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.