Understanding, Not Repair
She stands amid the clatter of well‑meaning hands,
each finger poised to tighten a bolt that isn’t loose,
each voice a screwdriver clicking into a rhythm
that never matches the pulse of her own heart.
You have learned the language of “fixing”—
the tidy promises of patches, of patches, of
quick‑drawn band‑aids that seal without listening.
But the cracks in her skin are not broken glass;
they are the map of roads she has walked alone,
the rivers that have carved canyons behind her eyes.
What she asks is not a mending, but a mirror,
a quiet space where the echo of her words can settle
and you can hear the tremor in the syllable “I.”
It is the soft permission to sit at the edge of her storm,
to feel the wind on your own cheeks, and to say,
“I see the thunder, I hear the rain, I am here.”
Understanding does not smooth the edges—it traces them,
holds them in the palm, acknowledges the weight of every
unspoken syllable. It is a hand that does not pull
but steadies, a gaze that does not judge
but follows the constellations she draws across her night.
So let the world keep its tools, its bolts and its gloss;
give her the quiet of a listening room, the patience
of a sunrise that refuses to rush.
In that patient light, she will not be fixed—
she will simply be, understood, and that is enough.