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
Genuinely Jannah 