Without a Cure

Even metaphors bleed.

That is why I trust them.

Not because they make the wound beautiful
but because they know
how to stand near blood
without pretending
it is only red.

Do not come here with a cure.

Come without your clean hands
without your small consolations
without the hurry
to make me whole
before you have understood
where I broke.

I am not bringing you pain
because I want it healed.

I am bringing it
because silence
has become too heavy
to carry alone.

Some wounds
do not ask to close.

They ask to be witnessed
while still open

to be seen
without shame

to be touched by language
and not immediately
turned into a lesson.

So come empty.

Come tender.

Come knowing
there are places in me
where even mercy
must kneel first

and ask permission.