9th February 2019

You uplift me.
I say, I’m terrified.
You listen with shimmering eyes.
Listen humbly as always.

We acknowledge not wanting to cause pain in the other.

Your brown hand scarred with tiny pale circles of light skin, from burns, digs fingers into your scalp amongst speckled grey, beautiful-black dreadlocks.

That hair. Smells of comfort,
of home,
of you.

You let me spill six months of hidden fears
and I let my eyes burn.

Fill.

Hold onto life,
to half the tears,
talk,
and tell how I inbox
one of my brothers, your sons, in the night desperate
for reassurance.
I’m too scared to put sadness your way anymore.

You listen, steadfastly.
I give words again.

Your precious body MUST heal,
be clean,
free of toxins
and worry.

No, I know. I know you aren’t scared of death.
Nor am I.
It’s the effect it will have on each other.

I cry to hear of your nightmares,
am crushed to see the pain
that pierces your heroic
proud face.
My palms, my fingers press.
I suck in the scent
of frankincense
that I massage into your arm,
your back,
your chest
imagining I’m healing your precious delicate, best-of-dads body.
Hold in the agony
that I can’t rip it out of you,
that doctors sent you away when we took you to them complaining for two years of pains in your chest.
Cunts.

But on the good days, I say to you, I wake and know we can fight, can do this, can.
Because we’re ALL, STILL, HERE.

WE CAN.

You alive in front of me now shows me that we can.

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