they find me
these broken boy men
wounded
by the isolationist culture
that created them
they sit before me
bleeding
their words, trauma, and light
(but never their tears)
into the chalice of my understanding
my mother instinct
has always been strong
the space of my holding
soft. vast.
Wendy in the never (ending) land
of lost stories and souls
they think I am safe
I am. and I am not
for my mother love
slowly dissolves
the dissociative magic of stasis
gently coaxing infectious pain
to the surface
to be felt. heard. healed.
this is my gift
and my curse
the creation of safe space
for unsafe self-truths
each time after
as I drive home
alone
all the unshed tears
from the eyes of their
desensitized PTSD
spill from mine
a transference counter
to the complex lonely needs
of my grown up heart
