Memona Emman
The Keeper of My Soul
by Memona Emman
I must never lose myself.
Only my heart belongs to me.
I exchanged my soul for love.
Now, the keeper of my soul
is its protector, giver, and nourisher.
But keepers don’t always take care
of what they have.
Keepers don’t always know—
not unless we tell them.
That’s why when their souls escape,
ours wither in misery.
It is not their fault.
Fault.
Then who is responsible for my suffering?
I gave my keeper my soul
because he needed it.
He planted the seed of love,
and the flower bloomed.
I let him tend to the flower,
and it died.
Why?
Now it only struggles to live.
His soul bleeds dry
because of the glass shards.
And then my soul bleeds dry
because of the glass shards.
I do not know why
the glass shards birthed us.
Maybe they were already broken—
that is why they are shards.
Perhaps they wanted to keep breaking.
The broken must never heal others;
they must break.
I am broken.
He is broken.
We are broken.
So, he must heal my soul,
and I must heal his.
I must clench my fists
and not scream
while he tends to my scars.
I must feel,
or I will never stop hurting.
I don’t feel.
I don’t feel it
because it hurts.
It keeps hurting.
If I wish for the tides
not to take me away—
far, far away—
away from my soul’s keeper,
away from the sanctuary
where I must seek asylum
now or forever,
I must feel.
I must let the glass shards
bury me,
I must let my lovers
betray me,
I must let it all happen.
I must trust the keeper of my soul
to heal my agony
and bring joy upon me.
And then,
I must feel.