You heal hearts you didn’t break, but who heals yours?

The heart you have is a hero in disguise to others, but a villain to you.

Someone told me that you say things you wish to hear. But the truth is, you have actually been offered dry handkerchiefs and soothing words written, and you still refused them to use your damp one. Your tears spread, of course; it didn’t matter terribly because you want your pain to be seen as your power and not your made-up bravery.

You have helped carry heavy luggage of those who traveled with aches; souvenirs of your sacred pills were received. Your work was a masterstroke, yet you haven’t tried it yourself.

But now, all you have to do is laze around for a while because I asked a shaman for you to have your shared untroubled touch bounce back to you.

Maybe you are your cure, but you also have a claim for a protector whenever you couldn’t get along with yourself. You are just the same as everybody; you are made sure there’s enough radiance and embrace for you.

In case you search for a wider reason, you are already fine yourself before you can ever take away someone’s blues. You just have to be deceived for a while because your call is bigger that when the time comes, you have to correct your sinner angle and tell you’re better than the lessons you’ve given.