Somewhere in the midst of a crooked and harrowing life I realized that handling people and the things they feel could be my occupation.
Gently, not so much pressure, but a sense that I am there.
Even if it's just my breath, coming short and a little anxiously.
I cradled these things throughout the years.... I whispered loving secrets, cried, fiercely tore at them, crushed them sometimes, tried my best to nurture most times.
I forgot about my own little rattling feelings, tidy in a matchbox, tucked under a memory I don't look at often.
I always thought this would make me a saint, someone special.
I cared so much.
Can't you see?
Instead it backfired.
The matchbox- it's full of dust. A hole near the corner where something finally chewed through.
In my ignorance I'm not helping anyone.
I'm ignoring the reality.
These people don't need me.
Ha! Quite the opposite. I'm a fucking asshole. The protector?! The one with the rough hands trembling through every apology, every avoidable folly. I'm acting like this hurts me but in my head I'm guilty of just being a spectacular coward.
Good for me. Realization.
Much too late.