I'm No Saintly Sacrifice Poem by Mark Heathcote

I'm No Saintly Sacrifice



I could make all your meals
and sort you out a hearty beef broth
I could do all your laundry
and even learn to darn your damn socks
I could tirelessly see to all your needs
and tidy up your every filthy mess
but I'd rather stab myself in the eye
then wash another cup or dish…

But making your bed
for me was once a labour of love.
And nothing was ever too much.
'But who will look after me? '
Now, nothing I do is ever enough.
'Nobody sees me; I'm only the hands,
the hands that sow, cook, and iron.
The hands that cleaned scrimped and saved.'

To keep a roof over your head.
The house you'll no doubt sell
when I'm dead, I guess I'll no longer matter.
'But did I ever, but did I ever? '
My hands are like cracked old leather
tired of tidying, tired of laundry
I'm tired of you; my entire life's been an existence.

I'm No Saintly Sacrifice
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