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,
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,
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.
I've yet to read a poem that encapsulates this notion better, I've had a stab or two myself but this is masterfully expressed and baring in mind just how this type of scenario rolls that is no mean feat. Regards Ink.
OMG! This is another, arguably more, hard hitting poem. How does a rock be there for a sticky taped together life, when it's teetering on the edge of death itself?
Well done. I hope it helped to let this one free into the world.