healing hands, wounded soul

A healer I am... 

for as long as memory stretches, 

I have carried this identity like a sacred inheritance. 

A maternal healing instinct, 

woven into my DNA, 

passed down through generations of nurturing hands.
Ever since childhood, 

I watched and learned— mimicking my mother's gentle touch, 

her sacred rituals of care. 

Oh, mother— first priestess of compassion, 

teaching me that healing is more than a skill, it is a language of love.

I would place my hand on my cousin's shoulder, 

whispering prayers like delicate spells, invoking safety, protection, restoration. 

My hands—conduits of something beyond the physical, 

channels of an energy that knows no boundaries. 

A healer of not just people, 

but of all living things. 

I have bargained with the god,

pleaded with the highest power: 

"Make me a vessel of healing. Let my touch be a bridge between pain and wholeness."

And somehow, miraculously God listened.

Now, beings seek me out... 

their wounds, their sorrows, their broken dreams— 

all find sanctuary in my presence. 

I have become what I once only dared to imagine.

I became a healer in the clinical sense,
yet never lost the magic of my mother's prayers. 

My hands carry both science and spirit— a delicate alchemy of medical precision and ancestral wisdom. 

Midnight calls find me ready:
A trembling friend needing an injection, 

A pregnant woman terrified of needles, Seeking the comfort of my gentle touch. 

I arrive, a guardian of healing, transforming fear into a moment of care.  

But here is the cruel irony:

Here I am, all grown. 

A healer without a healer. 

Searching for my own restoration, 

for hands that might mend my fractured spirit. 

But those who could heal me?

They are either lost, or have long since vanished. 

And still, I continue.
Healing. Loving. Becoming.