I hurt.
There are no other words to describe it- at least not while my head is pounding and my bones are shaking.
My skin covered in gaping wounds, bruised and blackened until I do not recognize myself
My bones, broken.
I hurt.
It hurts worst of all to know that there is not an end to my pain,
that even when I sleep I ache all over,
blood oozing from cuts and scrapes and caking my skin as it dries.
I hurt.
She is a healer,
all sunshine and sugar,
tea made with honey,
She has a voice soft as silk and her hands are calloused and cool against my feverish skin.
I hurt, still,
She cannot fix what I have broken,
She cannot heal my injuries,
but she tries.
I have been to healers before her,
all of which have given up when they realize I am a lost cause,
the gaping wounds spread out across my skin will never heal,
they leave to pursue a life they can save,
an affliction they can heal.
She does not give up,
her tired hands gently press a bandage to my cuts,
clean my wounds,
and sew them up.
It is not much,
it will not stop the flow of blood,
or the waves of pain,
but she will press her gentle lips to my forehead,
and do it again in the morning.
She is so sweet to me,
all the tender relief of a cool seaside breeze
and I love her.