Her hands run down my fractured spine

and her arms wrap around my treacherous waist

as she buries her face in my crooked neck

and kisses my furrowed, tortured head.

 

She sees me.

She sees me and I am not my broken body.

I am not some empty shell.

I am a lonely, desperate, tired, sad little girl ready to explode.

 

So she holds me gently,

just tightly enough to keep all the pieces in place,

and whispers sweet nothings till I fall asleep,

never once taking her eyes off me.

 

She does not ask me to be whole.

She does not ask me to be well.

She does not ask me to stay strong.

She does not ask me to stay alive.

 

She just wipes away the tears as they come,

telling me there’s no shame in my pain

as she tangles our legs together

and presses her forehead to mine.

 

She is my rock.

She is the shore I crash against, ebbing and flowing with the tidal pain.

She is steady and strong and soft.

She is savior and safety.

 

Her fingertips trace the curves of my swollen joints

and do their best to get my stiff form in motion

as she stares on in silent devotion

and smiles her small, sympathetic smile.

 

She loves me.

She loves me and I am all the better for it.

I am broken and beaten, but I am human.

I am under siege, but I am not alone.

 

She fills the empty spaces

and guides me through the dark,

combatting the awful pain

as we make our great escape.

 

as she leaves the broken world

and I leave my broken body

and we tie our heartstrings together,

all the better for it