Kindness kills with the calm of winter.
It freezes my fist in its fetal form,
it steals the heat from my words, vapour ghosts gone mid-air,
it gathers my thoughts under its gracious light
and reveals the skeletal bark I have donned
in the mirror-pools of your frozen lake-face.
Kindness brings more pain than steel swords ever could,
because it cuts deeper than steel ever could,
past cloth, skin, character-mould
into the soft flesh of ego,
because it lances open questions of “Who could ever deserve kindness?”
Kindness hurts the way pity does,
when a tender touch or gentle word
speaks only of stinging generosity.
Kindness bridges the chasm we left between us
and its soft warmth only reminds me of the coldness I was prepared for.
Your kindness leaves me bereft of myself.
Kindness is passion distilled in the afterglow of sunset
when all light has faded except that which we hold in our souls.
And yet kindness feels like all passion diluted
in a single timid cup afraid to spill over.
I do not know how to deal with kindness.
It is too much, or too little
and never enough.
It leaves me with a longing for the winter sun
and wary of its light.
Your kindness makes me unkind.
I wish I could destroy it, discard it,
spit the bitter pomegranate seed at you, devoid of sweet juice–
Or return it to you with the grace of my own kindness
but your kindness wakens my fears.
And fear makes me less hopeful, more hateful.
Your kindness kills.
It kills me in imagined conversations and illusory fates
It kills me though my pettiness, your guilt, our falsehood,
It kills me that you only ever show kindness instead of the love I was always looking for.