I am a fixer

I mend torn hearts

Stitch crushed souls

Piece people back together

I am a fixer.

When my friends come to me

With ripped hearts

At the hands of some idiotic boy

I pick up my sewing needle

And my thread

And slowly,

I begin to mend.

The needle pokes my fingers

Leave tiny holes

But I don't complain.

I stitch until my hands turn red

The stains of my blood

And theirs.

Finished.

They happily wave goodbye.

When the boy I love comes to me

With a crushed soul

Eyes glistening with tears

I pick up the shards of glass

And slowly piece him back together.

The glass cuts my hands

My eyes tear from the pain

But I choke back the tears

And continue on.

My palms once smooth,

Are now torn apart, jagged.

When I am done

He is as mended

As I am torn.

Fixed.

He happily waves goodbye.

Forgotten until the next time

My services are of use.

At the end of a long day

I pack up my sewing needle

My thread

My glue

And all my other tools.

I am a fixer

Because as long as I fix other people

No one will look deeper and realize

That I am the most broken of all.

Scars that have closed over wounds

Jagged cuts crisscrossing my heart.

Yet, I worry and wonder

Who will fix me?