You bandage me.
A tourniquet
stopping my hope
from flowing away.
You are
the soothing balm
that eases my pain,
the gently rain
on a hot summer day.
A plaster,
over these
grazed knees of antipathy,
aversion to the version
of me that verges
on the not so subtle
self-hatred bubble
of my anxiety.
You are medicine.
A form of therapy.
A recipe that should be
stocked in every pharmacy.
You stop
the brain drain,
when my mind
wanders over
It's misfiring
mainframe,
you are a surgeon,
replacing the parts
that have burnt out.
My heart riddled
with self-doubt. The bits
that no longer contain
the essence of me,
you are the thread that stitches
these things so perfectly.
You nurse me,
not by waiting tirelessly
hand and foot over me,
making me cups of tea,
or providing anything for me,
but by being you.
Letting me witness
your goodness,
washing through
the murkiness
that could consume.
You heal me.
Not with string
sewn through me,
Your fingers
not worked to the bone
to provide
anything for me.
You heal me by
letting me see,
letting me view
you living life so free.
Being able to enjoy the moonlight
like you do as it waves over you,
letting me know how much
it helps to heal you.
Thanks for reading
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