You there, I see you with your sullen eyes
looking down at your feet, your back hunched forward,
turning away from the cacophony, the loud words they throw at you.
The arrows they fire dig into your back, and you let it bleed.
Your body a constellation of bruises.
You laugh, a glass of wine in your hand.
You call them beautiful, a beautiful mess.
But, my dear, I see them every time you turn around.
Trust me, your pain isn’t beautiful. It’s not meant to be.

You’re good at hiding your hurt:
you put it underneath patchwork blankets
you wrap it like christmas presents
and stack them on your bookshelf.
You collect it. You save it old green bottles.
You cut your pain into pieces
and hang it up like art.

Sometimes, however, you aren’t so subtle.
I can hear the anger behind your singing,
see how your fingers shake every time
your cigarette touches your lips.
I can feel your heartbeat rippling through you,
as I’m sure you do,
when I hold your hand, trying to steady it.
And I wish, more than ever
that I could make it better.

Perhaps I can’t change things.
I can’t change what has happened
or what will.
But don’t you dare think
I’m going to let you rust away.
Every time that layer of oxide forms on you,
I will be right there to clean you up
Until you don’t need me to anymore.
Giving up on yourself is the easy way out
and even though I’m lazy,
I’m not going to let you take it.
I will drag you through the mud,
lift you when you think
you can’t take another step.
Through the dirt we will fight,
like comrades on a battlefield.
Both of us will emerge alive and victorious
on the other side.

I’m a good friend, I will help you lose those ten pounds
But don’t for a second think I’m going to let you
shrink yourself out of fear of taking up too much space.
When the crowds hit you with their acidic words,
I can’t promise that I can keep them all from hitting you
but I will help you wash away the ones that do.
Together, we can watch the words dissolve into water.
And your pain with it.

All of this, I can only do if you’re willing to let me.
All I need to know, is that if I hold out my hand
will you place yours in it?

Oh, slow to smit and swift to spare,
Gentle and merciful and just!
Who, in the fear of God, didst bear
The sword of power, a nation's trust!

In sorrow by thy bier we stand,
Amid the awe that hushes all,
And speak the anguish of a land
That shook with horror at thy fall.

Thy task is done; the bond of free;
We bear thee to an honored grave,
Whose proudest monument shall be
The broken fetters of the slave.

Pure was thy life; its bloddy close
Hath placed thee with the sons of light,
Among the noble host of those
Who perished in the cause of Right.