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by Fyn
Rated: E · Poetry · Paranormal · #2262394
Sometimes, feeling a little selfish.
She had the pointy ears, of course,
but no one ever seemed to notice
unless she pointed them out.
Intuitive, they granted,
and she seemed to get where
they were coming from:
they must have been communicating well,
or so they thought. Felt as if
they'd known each other before:
but then that was crazy, wasn't it?

Not always, but then, sometimes--
headaches would simply vanish
or energy levels replenish
inexplicably. They did take that Tylenol, right?
Might have been the juice --oh but wait--
they were out. They never saw the smile after
and they never saw her huddled,
curled around slowly dissipating pain.
Beyond empath, walking a singular trail.
Never able to help them all.

Not able to pick and choose,
but just having a sense of knowing
when the time was right. A bad car accident
almost killed her even though
she wasn't involved in the crash, just
close enough to want to take their pain.
Doctors didn't understand bruising patterns
or how x-rays could simply change. Chalked
up to overtired techs and anyway; she left,
and more patients waited.

A gift, one might say, and yet
not one that is always pleasant.
Having to watch a clear light dwindle
to mere spark before flashing out
or be helpless when black smothers,
stealing all color. No road maps
when tracing down last vestiges
and yet one must be able to find
their way out again, and then
push it all away before exhaustion reigns.

An invisible nudge, unacknowledged
because unknown. As it should be.
Oh, but sometimes, she is so tired
and if you know, you can see shadowed
eyes, the lethargy. Most can't or don't
or never will. Pushes onward.
She's used to it. Just as she's used
to being accused when she cannot do
what she wishes she could: not up to her.
But then, that's why she never tells.

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