She’s awake again, I realize, as I myself tumble out of sleep,
to land agitated and out of sorts in the bed, empty of her.
I see the kitchen light shining up from beneath the door,
and realize she’s can’t sleep, so she’s at the table writing.
This thorn in her brain that drips blood into her thoughts,
and scabs over her sweet nature, wounding her light.
This thorn that that festers and infects her dreams, hopes,
and that can’t be pushed out of the soft pink of her dreams.
I get up, still only in my underwear, and by dim light make
my way to the bedroom door, to got to her, to offer love.
Her head is down, and she’s wearing a ratty, pink bathrobe,
typing away at her laptop, not even a glass of tea beside her.
I wrap my arms around her chest, and kiss her head, that still
smells of her favorite strawberry scented shampoo, now discontinued.
She shrugs off my embrace, and continues typing, feverishly,
as if the thorn were a sickness that could be sweated out by words.
I go back to bed, but can’t sleep, knowing how she’s hurting,
and furious and full of fire for the broken world she’s found herself in.
About 4 AM, she finally comes back to bed, but she’ll have to wake at 6.
She takes off her robe, gets under the covers, cuddles up close to me.
“The horrors come so easily.” She says, her face buried in my shoulder.
“Sometimes my heart burst with love for all things, but I can’t write those words.”
“I’ll just stare at the page, wanting to fill them with visions of innocence and sweetness.
But the horrors are always there, just flow write out, never ending, so skillfully made.”
Exhausted at last, she falls asleep, but she sighs and whimpers, still not at peace.
Will hard scare tissue grow over the thorn, grow over it’s insult to her mind?
I kiss her head, and her cheek, whisper the sweetest things I can think of
into her ear, to try and reach out into the darkness, to leaven this pain.
I feel her heart racing, pounding to be free, in her thin, strong, saint’s chest.
The horror inside her world and outside in this one run her down, a fox in the hunt.
The thorn is stuck so deep, can I or anyone else that loves her pull it out again?
Is it’s wound and poison in there forever, blood poisoning all the way to her soul?
I kiss her lips gently, and sing an innocent song to her, to soothe her dreams.