it’s
a heavy-handed
work of art,
pressuring
the edges
of my
sanity,
mending
and soothing
highstrung nerves.

i can’t help
but smile,
a silent
acknowledgement
of my
childish temper.
i
am so used
to fighting
for this.

you
hush
my soft cries,
letting me
rest my heart
in your
gentle hands.
no favors.
no strings.
i call out
and there
you are.

i
feel
as though
i place
so much–
too
much–
of myself
upon
your shoulders.

even then,
you
carry me along
when i
cannot walk
on my own
sore
feet.

one has said
that i
am a saint
fallen
from the heavens,
taught
by the wild fey
and caressed
by mother Gaia’s
soft touch.
i was gifted,
silent,
to an angel
and a snake.

then
there is you,
strange one.
streams
of the purest
of waters
trickled
over your bones
in your
creation.
earthen gods
spun
for you
many names;
one
was taken
on an eagle’s wings,
whispered
into my
spirit’s
ear and sealed,
tender,
with fairytales
and this
silky sweet doubt.

i will not lie.
this gift
tortures me so.

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