I understand.
I understand and that is my curse;
a compassionate heart and a gentle soul;
cute little quirks.
I always understand,
I always bend,
it never hurts.

My eyes see your pain,
my heart always matches the heartbeat in your ribcage
but in vain;
in the eye of my mind I can see the pattern in your choice
and I can taste the reasons in your voice.

I understand.
... but do I understand really?
I don't, actually.

I don't understand why
I don't kiss my own hands
like I kiss the hands
of those that stabs.

I'm tired of understanding.
For once, I wish to be understood.
Without remorse,
without guilt,
without shame.

© WeepingWillow