You were born with broken wings, so you fell from your self-created heaven. I mourned for you when you told me. So you asked if you could have mine and I handed them over.
You lost your voice soon after that, so you couldn't sing your honeyed notes. I dropped my eyes in shame at being too fortunate. Silently you asked if mine could be yours and I gave it to you quickly.
Your hands fell away, you could no longer produce your works of art. I felt awkward and out of proportion at my own rough hands. Softly you asked if mine could somehow fit and I thrust them at you regretlessly.
The eyes in their sockets creamed over, so your world was lost. I searched mine frantically for yours in vain. Politely mine were asked for and so went another of my pleasing selfless chores.
Somewhere along the line you lost your soul, and with it joy and love were misplaced. Mine was saddened by the news. With my voice you asked to use my soul and so I gave it to you without a doubt in my mind.
The heart in your chest blackened and crumbled, so the well-bargained for soul was useless. I tried to console you. Sweetly, you reached out a hand and my heart went out to you.
Just today you demanded, without reserve and no finesse, my life. Quietly, I got down upon my knees in front of you...and your knife.
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