Tell me things,

I beg of you.

 

Don't hide little hurts in your heart.

Don't you wear them close,

 Like awful little broaches.

Or tie them to your tiny wrist,

A cluster of lead balloons

Dragging your heels into cement.

Don't stack them up 

On tall and dusty shelves,

In jars crusting over in aging plaque.

 

No, give them to me, gently.

Lift your hurts like sick kittens

Not ripping out of hot wax,

But sympathetically cradle your hurts

And hand them over to me.

I will wash them in warmth,

Hold them like delicate birds

And love them until they cry it out.

And you do, and I do too.

 

I want to, so I beg of you,

Tell me all your little hurts,

So we can heal our hearts.