A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

Where there is 

imperfection,

humanity,

guilt even,

what is needed is 

love,

compassion,

patience,

understanding,

but instead I am prone to

shame,

hatred,

disgust,

frustration,

anger

and I project these onto you.

I assume you feel the same. 

Wrathful – I imagine you 

shaking your head,

clenching your fists:

she’s gone and done it again!

Will she never learn? Did I 

suffer for nothing? Almost

as though you’d be surprised

the number of ways I can fuck things up.

But you’re not. You know me. 

You have always known me,

and yet you have always loved me. 

There must be some level of frustration,

but not the way I imagined it.

Not angry frustration that I 

have failed yet again, but

disappointed frustration

that I tried to go it alone,

and wouldn’t be aided.

Why didn’t she ask for help?

Why is she being so hard on herself?

Why is she still so surprised

when she inevitably stumbles?

And why does she cling so desperately

to pride and unrealistic expectations, 

insisting she doesn’t need saving?

It only makes the fall harder. 

Why does she persist

in clinging to feelings of shame, 

when I have nailed 

all her shame to a tree

until it was dead; why

does she insist on resurrecting it, 

on holding onto it, giving it power, 

where it should have none?

I came that she may have life, 

life to the full, and yes, 

it saddens me

that she is not taking full advantage of that,

that she marinates in her anxiety,

allows her self-hatred to steep 

like cheap tea, becoming bitter,

darkening her skies.  The storms

will always come, but she

can walk on water

if she but believes she can.  

And when she doubts – 

as I know she will – my hand

is ever present, 

waiting to catch hers before disaster. 

My arms are always ready

to offer comfort and protection,

if she’d just let me love her.