I hold the knife, sharp and fevered.

The onus—he’d always say—is mine to bear.

Do I accept or sever all ties?

One glance at his mousey face, and I falter.

For him, it's too late.

The harm is done, wounds gaping and festering.

He’s been hurt like this before, but I am no medicine.

Not one of my bonds has ever held strong or firm.

I own up to what I am.

Claim my flaws, my responsibility, my retribution.

Do you think I cower in fear of pain?

That I lack the courage to stand on the ledge,

Teetering between the light and the dark?

The hypocrisy runs bone-deep,

But my spirit refuses to be brain-dead.

I see all I am—and all I could be with you.

But the fear, lodged in my bones, holds me back.

Steeped in my once guttural plea to escape

A bond so strong it still holds.

Trapped in my instinct for self-preservation.

Yes, I regret it deeply—

But not before gratitude for the second chance.

For a time, pain ruled me.

Every blip of memory triggered a response I couldn’t push away.

Each tear my heart shed left a million cracks,

Creating rivers that swallowed the anguish whole.

My heart pressed on,

Journeying like a fevered beast seeking restitution,

Bleeding, leaving an obnoxious trail.

One moment I’d patch the wounds; the next,

I’d claw at the sutures and leave them gaping.

Hollowness stung, and I tried to fill it—

Anything that fit became my solace.

Until one day, I looked and saw no more blood.

Not mine, at least.

I’d found donors willing to bleed for me.

Yes, I was marked,

But I was covered.

Realizing what I had done,

I cut all ties,

Pulled out my feelings, and peered into the hollow.

It wasn’t white, but it was pure.

It was tainted, but not beyond saving.

A whisper came then—

The voice of my strength, sheer stubborn will:

"There’s nothing you need that you don’t already have."

So I fought,

Like Arthur pulling the sword from stone,

To feed that strength.

Now, the hollow is a scar,

Still fading,

Still healing.

The pain is yesterday’s ghost—

Haunting but no longer ruling.

I am better for it, though its grip still lingers.

And yet,

I turn around, and there you are:

My healing,

My weary stranger.

In all my years, I’ve never known softness like this.

It moves, it proves,

It holds true.

It’s not bottled or capped,

Not strung out or goaded.

It’s not docile or beat,

Not weary or starry-eyed.

How did I know this existed?

To recognize it now that it’s near,

To hold it close and never fear.

I saw the loss in my brother’s eyes—by God, I did.

To lose this and have only emptiness to show.

I reached out,

To console,

To heal.

What will he think—perfect or real?

Will he see it for what it is?

A gift meant to satisfy,

Meant to fill.

For what it’s worth,

It is a sacrifice I mean to make