The Healer’s Wound

There is a certain kind of mercy  
that ruins the one who gives it.  
You learned this young—  
that some souls arrive fractured,  
and some arrive hungry,  
and some arrive carrying a silence  
so heavy it needs a body to collapse into.  
Yours was always the nearest body.  

You became the place where storms broke.  
Not because you were strong,  
but because you never stepped aside.  
You let people shatter against you  
as if your ribs were a shoreline  
and their grief was the tide  
that believed it had the right to return.  

Every life you stitched back together  
left a seam inside you that never closed.  
A private fault line.  
A quiet, widening ache.  
The kind of wound that doesn’t bleed—  
it thinks.  
It remembers.  
It keeps score in the dark.  

Healers are strange creatures:  
they can resurrect strangers  
but cannot save themselves  
from the slow erosion of being needed.  
You hid it well—  
the way your spirit limped,  
the way your nights grew carnivorous,  
the way your own name felt foreign  
after so many years of answering to pain  
that wasn’t yours.  

And still, you rose.  
You always rose.  
Not out of hope—  
but out of a devotion older than language,  
older than the body,  
older than the idea that you deserved rest.  

Your wound became a second heart,  
beating beneath the first,  
a darker metronome  
measuring the cost of compassion.  
It whispered truths you never said aloud:  
that saving others is a slow form of burial,  
and you have been digging your own grave  
with every kindness.  

Yet even now,  
you keep offering your hands  
to the broken and the burning,  
as if the universe carved you  
from something meant to endure.  

One day, perhaps,  
someone will see the shadow you drag  
and say,  
“Give it here. Let me carry the part that’s killing you.”  

Until then,  
you walk on—  
a healer held together  
by the very wound  
that proves you loved  
beyond what a single life  
was ever built to hold.

-𝕃ℝ 🖤 

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