Juiced

A poem by Julia R. DeStefano

Photo by Giorgio Trovato on Unsplash

Juiced

It shouldn’t be so hard —

I think, pulling the comforter over my head —

to be asked how I am

when I have juiced my heart

to fill your cup

because I wanted you happy and loved

even before the first kiss.

Your pain had become my pain,

your joy, my joy.

This is who I am,

leaking buckets of love since childhood.

A woman like that is misunderstood

in her desire for a lifeline to humanity -

for a voice other than her own

to see her, not fix her.

She doesn’t need fixing or solving

or the chasing-away of monsters

real or imagined -

only caring

and maybe the occasional wipe of a tear

if she even lets you see it.

I have been her kind.

I still am.

Oh life, I imagine you will murder me not

with your weapons

or your words,

or your actions

but with silence -

that bleak, plaguing emptiness

to hang overhead

and eat away at the soul gradually

like a cancer called

I don’t have the time

when we need the gift of hello

more than ever

and hearts must be soft

or risk permanent hardening.

© Julia R. DeStefano