Love her and her scars altogether.
Every ripe bruise and cranny;
kiss them. Love them hard.
Healing them is impossible.
Stitching back the cuts and wounds
won’t ever do. Medicines cannot
cure what you cannot view.
And I humbly ask; knees on the floor,
don’t lie to her to cure her because
that won’t do. Lovely words that
are empty don’t say that you love.
They only speak of living death.
You’re not a murderer, aren’t you?
If you want to stab her hard,
you can always wound her with
words you utter; you need not tie
your tongue to hers just prove yours
to be sharper than any blade created.
Don’t fix her; build her.
Love her broken bones.
That is what she is made of
Cobwebs and dust; cuts and bruises;
pain and anguish; bravery and fearlessness
and all that is magical in between.