The Martyr

She bled all over the white carpet

gasping and moaning all the while;
but when I ran to help her up, her
hunched, pale body wouldn't budge,
her bloodless fingers wrapped around
a sponge and heavy, soapy bucket.

"Don't worry about me, I'll be alright."

The light is bad, the house too cold,
the house too hot, it's far too silent,
far too loud, and pink is blue, then blue
is pink, her garden growing so contrary;
I'd paint her colors as she pleased, but

"Oh, no no, don't worry about me."

washing dishes in ice cold water, trying
hard to be efficient, taking thirty minute
showers, creeping up so silent, 'til I hear
her mournful breathing, pregnant pauses,
heaving sighs, the Martyr with her broken
lance. I try to make her burdens light, but

"Oh, no no, I'll be alright."


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