Pungent and tight

your pain wraps around your chest

and constricts; a foul viper.

How much is a man expected to stand?

How is a hero expected to carry on

when can’t he catch a break?

I try to catch you but always miss

as you careen past

when the composure breaks

and the pain blooms

out, a gaudy night blossom.

you roar at me

then roar at yourself

for roaring at me

I exacerbate with my faults

and have trouble knowing

how much of it is me.

Then the old urge comes

to cut, to bleed somehow to

balance the scales with

my own pain…

as if that could make things right,

but I know that doesn’t work

and it’s not about me, anyhow.

You’re so good

at trapping your demons deep and away

and it’s really only recently

that you’ve been able to let them have sway

and I know it frightens you.

But I think it better

to let them out

to excise the abscess,

Lest you lose parts of yourself.

But Love, I would amputate

the lost limb myself

before I let you succumb

to the wretched infection.

No. It must come out

or be cut away.

Oh, my own heart.

I wish I could make things right.

Could you help me to make things right?

How can we make things right?

I want to make things right.

Please help me to make things right.