By Mackenzie Taylor

your wounds, the consequence 
of subjecting my kindness to your abuse,
are only for you to tend-
but here I am, gently placing bandaids
on the broken skin on your hands.
all because you wanted to juggle 
shards of my bones.
using my own remedies 
to help you rid the itch of guilt
tickling the back of your neck.
making you a new cup of tea
to ease the bitter taste in your mouth
from the rotten things you spit onto me. 

why do I carry the weight of your mistakes?
why must I feel that your wounds
were solely my own infliction,
despite you being the only one to blame?
you destabilized this foundation,
yet I blame myself 
for falling to pieces
and cutting your feet.