Edema Rue

I've always dreamed of writing worlds,

Of telling stories,

Of creating characters.

But today I'm wishing

For a different sort of words.

The words not to escape to a place far away,

But to heal the one I live in today.

For the power,

Not to create,

But to care.

To remember those who've been forgotten;

To hear the ones who've been ignored.

To love them all when they are alone,

And to warm their hearts with the hearth-fire of my words.

But my words break,

They strain

And they crack.

When I need them most,

They rot and decay.

But still,

I make you this promise.

Even so,

I make you this vow.

Though my words may be weak, though I cannot say what I mean,

I care for you,

And I have hope and love to spare.

My heart is full;

I would that it were empty;

All the love drained,

So that you who hurt could feel it.

I would give away my own hope,

So that it could mend the chasms and cracks in your hearts.

If I could give you what I feel,

Send it out of my heart and into my fingers and onto a page,

If I could love you the way you don't you believe you deserve,

If I could be there for you when no one else is,

If I could show you how deeply I care.

But my words fall flat;

My hope stays in my heart.

Still,

I promise,

I swear,

I vow,

I make this oath:

I will love you, for always and forever, no matter what you say, no matter who you are, no matter what you believe or why you hurt or how you hurt or any of it.