When that time comes around again when the blade smiles warmly,
I think of a face that smiles warmer.
When my wings are torn and my spirit mangled, I cannot fly, I look to you.
You fly so much higher.
The names and slices that decorate my arms show how many people have
suffered from my grief.
The scars they've left on my life have ruined everything.
Yours have only healed and nurtured.
I often drown in the tears you've go graciously kissed away. These tears
that have danced with yours are still stained with my red rivers of
Still, you look at these flaws and find a way to paint with them.
You've painted and made me beautiful.
I wear your wings you've lended me until my own grow back.
They're growing and intertwining with my own. If you leave you'll take away
a part of me, the part of me that sores.
Of all the things I've cut away, you remain in my heart no matter how
twisted and bruised your own heart is.
I try to fill your parched veins with richer, lovelier words to keep them
from cracking any more.
But somehow, someway you've corked my rivers with your own fragile heart.
You've absorbed my hurt. I'm clean from this flowing, crimson hurt.
It is you who I don't deserve.
Thank you, dear Tourniquet.