Too much of me bleeds over onto her.
She should not have to bind my wounds;
I am supposed to be the medic of her heart,
Holding her together until
She can find her own healing
And better.
Yet I see the stains already that
I have left upon her;
They sink in and set,
And I cannot scrub her enough to
Rid her of them without
Rending her worse.
That it is ever thus,
I am certain;
My own skin shows the marks upon it of
Such scouring,
Such discoloration from the hurts of others
Overflowing.
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