She is the pain,
And she's the reliever.
If she were an illness,
Then she would be fever:
Sometimes she's curable,
Others she kills.
She makes me feel warm
Whilst trailing Winter chills.
She is the wound,
And she is the healing.
She acts like she doesn't,
But she has deep feelings.
Though her body's bruised and
Her cuts are infected,
She won't ever allow them
To be treated or detected.
I want to tell her that I love her.
That she's my best friend.
But I'll be met with ridicule and disinterest.
I want to ask her to let me love her.
I long to hold her hand and help her,
Let her spill her sorrows, tell me her fears,
Shed her skin, share her pain and cry her tears.
To be dependent on someone for once,
To know that I'm there to catch her.
But she won't ever be like that…
And though it hurts,
When I'm with her
She makes it hurt a little less…
…It'd be like asking a bird not to fly.
She was just born this way.