The little gap you inhabit

 I know I'm too soft and willing to fix the hurt that you carry, I know myself for being too nosy, too easily involved, too eager to make myself your answer. 

I open up my heart and you take out the blood, like a transplant, like you need it more than I do. I find myself looking back at my mistakes, and how many are tied to my softness, to letting you live in my soul forever, the gaping wound that I don't let myself heal from because if I did, where would you keep yourself? 

They wouldn't take care of you like I do.

Not without these splintered fingers, these thorned arms.