If I could shut up my pride for just a second,

and listen to the whispers that she riddles,

I'd be able to see my words have no effect.

She's a healer,

who suffers.

An insomniac who sings lullabies.

A martyr faced with the task of moving a mountain.

And no matter the fever that she burns,

or how her body turns,

her cross will wear her down.

No matter how soft the kiss,

or how stern the hand,

it's in her nature to nurture.

Though the weary eyes,

that she tends,

can't see her torture.

And I want to hold her,

and trade her cancer,

but she won't answer,

only feed the snakes that sting her.


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741