Beyond Years

The pain in your eyes was palpable.
The gentleness in my heart could grasp all the turmoil in your chest.
I have held your pain before, understanding it well enough, beyond my years.
I carried it on my shoulders until my clavicles creaked and weakened.
But I gladly took it. I was told it was good, that I had a healing effect on you.
It made me feel good, like I had a purpose. So, I held it.

I listened to all the one-sided versions of the events in your life.
I believed you.
I kept your pain safe, in the safest cupboards of my heart,
never opening them for anyone else to peek through.

You gave me a pile of unassembled affairs,
and I tried to assemble them as best as I could,
with my loyal hands, beyond my years,
very meticulously.

And though I don’t doubt the universe’s wisdom
in teaching me so much, so soon,
I still wonder, was it ever really needed?
All that absorption, all that listening?
Was it because I believed that my emotions would be absorbed too,
that my stories would be heard as well?

At times, I did it all selflessly,
only for the good.
But there came a time when you sat in front of me
and laid forth all your troubles again,
so that I could carry them, absorb them,
assemble your chaos,
and relieve you of your pain.

God knows I wanted to.
But I had nothing left.
My clavicles were already broken.
The cup of my heart was empty.
My listening ability had all dried up.

So, when I left the table without giving you what you wanted,
You must have felt I was unbothered,
unfazed by your pain.

But I wish for you the wisdom to understand:
I had emptied my cup too soon,
beyond my years,
and I had to wander, here and there,
to fill it up again.