The Healing Ointment

I touch the Vaseline, lid cracked, a promise—

glazing childhood wounds that fade, yet linger.

My friend and I fought; rawness in the air,

like skin yearning for sunlight, a hand’s soft ache,

unseen but deeply felt, as if words could heal,

soaking in the grease, our tension pooled,

unshed tears crusted beneath the edges—

a blue jar, cracked open, revealing dark corners.