Outstretched

Do not mock me. This is how I sp  eak. I no longer bend to wash your feet, rub oils into your wounds.
I no longer hear your voice in my ear--

Do not mock me. I do not have wounds in my hands, and yet I still burn, I still pose--arms out   stretched, waiting for per   mission.

Do not mock me. These are my words. I cannot share your flesh. I cannot tally your crimes.

And yet, I am still here. I cut my feet on the path you laid for me. Why do you stand there as I run to you?
Do not              speak.