Backfire

You pleaded for my vulnerability
to see my pain.
But I wasn’t ready, and you couldn’t make me.

Over the years, if I trigger,
when I PTSD’d, reached for your hand,
you snatch it as if I’m burning you.

As if the grenade detonates inside you
and not me.

So I’m here calming you during my internal explosion?

I’m here for your pain, your bleeding wounds.

Your sexuality confusion,
childhood abuse,
poor self esteem,
pushing you to keep
maintaining the delicate balance of diet/exercise.
Keeping you from draining your own mind
of all its glory and splendor.
Expelling all my energy for that.

I assume everything is a two-way street.

The embarrassment of asking if you can try,

reciprocity,

when before I called,

that sinking feeling in my soul already knew you couldn’t.

What would you do without me to hold your bags?

Even when your hands are free, you won’t lift mine,
and the burden of my shame is breaking my back.