mending people who come to me
and raw knees.
They extend me bloody palms with
half moon slivers of iron embedded in the flesh.
Around their wrists are heavy salt soaked sleeves,
and nose running.
My mother raised me
to care and to love
and as much as I thank her for my heart,
I curse this heart
for collapsing with every tear
and for leaping at every "please".
I wore this heart out
until its rhythm was droned whole notes,
sluggish and heavy,
and ever so slightly off tempo.
My skin drained of color
and veins drained of blood
as I watched corpse upon corpse's cheeks
grow ruddy once more
only for them to walk off smiling.
I never wanted a thanks.
Nor did I get them.
And that was fine,
until I could feel my own body
begging for the life