They ask me why I’m single.
I shy away from the truth.
Spiritual women attract broken men,
and like a nurse I tend to them.
It’s not that I’ve never had relationships.
It’s just there’s a thin line between lover and healer;
I am often both and he is often neither.
He is the one in need,
and I mostly have the ability
to rejuvenate when I deplete.
They come to me wounded,Muneera Pilgrim, That Day She’ll Proclaim Her Chronicles
and it would seem my womb
has a thing for making my heart their remedy.
Them idling on sacred ground,
somebody else’s sacred house.
I act placid as they set God’s house alight to keep them warm.
When they’re done I put out their flames with acid,
scooping up the flesh that’s left behind,
knowing these scars will heal with time.
Because who does not want a woman
who can heal like alchemy,
who can ease pain and sorrow,
mixing elixirs out of her tears, cloves and aloes?
Who does not want a woman who will give all of herself
until she is hollow, God’s home is hollow?
I am shallow, yet drowning still.
It’s best I’m single; that’s God’s will.
Pen has lifted feather and quill.
We are remodelling,
house into a home,
so the next man who enters
will have to take off his shoes and bow to God’s throne.