It’s just what you do
I am not yours to be fixed,
nor am I a means through which you discover yourself,
and how I can assist you
and you can tread quietly on me
on your journey of introspection.
When you realise
I have a lot more questions than I do answers,
am I meaningless to you?
What worth is a woman who has her own complexities,
you – first– need to be fixed,
you need a mother,
you need a therapist,
you need a listener,
an empath.
How ironic that I yearn to be held
and comforted
by the very thing that does the hurting.
I hold fractured parts of you together
and try to make them whole.
if I squint hard enough,
you look almost complete.
If I try really hard I, too, can warp your vision
to see me as a person–
but you had your eyes closed all along.
What is a woman’s purpose
if not to wring her heart dry
and unearth herself of all emotion
to give and never receive.
If not love, what else?
It’s in your nature to want to leave.
You take and you take
and you watch as I suffer
and crumble beneath you
and when I’m gasping for my breath
you clutch the last sigh of air for yourself
as you walk away and hope that I understand.
You come first.
You’re just a man.
