Paint

I had a dream that I painted my skin the color of tears.
I told every stranger that they could use my shoulder to cry on.
I promised them their tears wouldn’t show.
I told them it would be okay, that my body was enough to camouflage them all.
I didn’t care what color skin they wore.
I didn’t care what they identified as.
I didn’t care what God they chose to worship.
I just wanted to be the comfort that I can’t seem to find myself.

One by one, they leaned into me and weeped.
They stared blankly, unbalanced and chaotic.
I held them close and I learned them.
Not all the world is hard, or bad, or hateful-
But so much of the world is lost.
I tried holding onto all the tears.
I wanted to carry them, but they began to fill me up.
I was overflowing and spilling onto the floor.
The line of sad faces was growing, and the paint I wore was starting to drip off of me.
I needed a moment to catch my breath-
To take it all in.
To save the memory of what it feels like to hold a crying stranger.
To reapply my paint.

I listened to each one as they crawled into me.
I didn’t stop to apologize to God for taking away his prayers.
Or the moon, for stealing his lost words.
I can’t describe this feeling, and my words aren’t doing it justice.

How do we keep ignoring the fact that we aren’t healing?
Or that we don’t know how to heal at all?