Messes

I always seem to be cleaning up messes.
I am the handmaid, the adjudicator, and the wrench.
Cleansing away the scars of bombing from the land.
Washing away the torture of his hands

I pick up the crumbs from the floor
I prune the tears from Mother's face
I pin back the fear and anger in mine

I wonder, if I could tally up the problems I've fixed,
Wrote them on my body,
How long until I reached infinity?
Would my skin be covered in ink?

I've gotten in the habit
Of picking at my lip,
Tearing at my skin in an attempt to perfect it
To polish myself up
I guess I'm his mess too.