cure

i’m not your cure.
i’m not sorry i’m not your cure
that i can’t take away all the pain you feel
all the betrayal, rejection, and inexplicable cruelties of this world we live in
i cannot wave my magic wand
nor work hard at loving and make all the hurt unhappen.
trust me i know, i learned this by failing
on you.

i’m sorry i promised i will be your fixer
put all the shattered pieces together and make you whole again
complete again
as if i knew you were ever complete, that your pieces were not in the galaxy somewhere
where in dreams you, only you can grab at them floating and fit them where you know they belong
like a jigsaw piece
from your childhood.

no, i’m not your cure
my love is not shaped to fill all your dark and angry cracks
it can no longer feed your insatiable caverns
and you know this is not a fair fight
hands and daggers, daggers and hands
i’m cut to pieces by the trying to mend you.

i’m sorry, i thought i could save you
pull you out of your misery
chase away your daemons
hold you like my babies and croon to you
everything will be alright, everything will be alright, everything will be alright
but sometimes, it won’t
for a very long time
while we’re looking to find ourselves.

and so,
although i am made out of unbreakable things
a woman
who can carry dust and dirt, stardust and broken shards of the universe
and sprout flowers like the earth
and sprout nectar from my breasts
although when i am beaten down, trashed, torn asunder
i grow wings instead
and flourish, and flourish, and flourish
i can’t cure your sickness.

i am not your healer
i am not your guru
i’m not your happiness, or your sadness, or your dream, or your future
i’m not your mystery
i am not your question
i am not your answer.

©Tsion B., 2016

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