the wounded healer (pt1).

Petal.

There will be that moment, when I am living on the streets again, an old ruin of a starchild, but their light gone from my eyes, when you will press a coin into my palm, to pay me off, reward my silence, to dismiss me and those eyes that you know are emptier than my belly. And I will grab your hand, look you full in the face and say

I want to give something back.
Here. Take this thing that does not exist. The energy that cannot be contained.
It is not mine to give.
But I want you to have it.

This will be uncomfortable for you. You didnt want to talk to me, after all, you should have thrown the coin rather than risk physical contact. Its too late.

There was no greater punishment than breaking my own hands. I was already broken. I just needed people to know.

I gave a man a sledgehammer
I held a firecracker til it hurt

It doesnt matter now. It was meant to happen. I meant it. To take back control

I lost my will to manifest long, long ago. My hands were ugly, like tree roots. Tumorous, timorous, tepid. They are gone now; it is better that way.

This way I am no threat to you.