They call her the savior

A curse derived from childhood

Marked by her upbringing

Where she was everyone’s sunshine

She is the psychologist

The knower, the healer

Intelligent, wise

Able to solve problems

To fix pieces, mend hearts

She is the salve that one puts on their scars;

The Band-Aid a young child places on their injury;

The stitches that hold together flesh;

The molecules that bind to form cells

Do you know the curse of a healer?

The one that seeks to heal even in the midst of their own suffering?

The selfless act of empathy

Of compassion

Of relating

Or perhaps enmeshment

Struggling to release binds

To release ties

Placing boundaries to save oneself

If you understand the curse of the healer, then…

Who heals the healer?

How can she be saved?

If she’s the one doing the saving,

I suppose,

Her salve;

Her band-aid;

Her medicine

Lies somewhere in between silence

A cup of tea, a pen, and paper,

Prayer,

and time

As it etches on, memories fading into nothingness

Her purification deriving from destruction

Like the Phoenix whom burns itself to ashes

Only to rise anew, relishing in the purity of rebirth

Do you know the miracle of the healer?

Where depths are welcome

Death loses its horror

And suffering is her rebirth