My wife Ruth wrote this poem for my inner child

The narcissistic wound runs so deep,
I see the wounded child and I sit and weep,
I weep for the pain disappointment and fear,
That shows in his face every time he is near,
I know not what to do and say,
He is so full of abandonment sorrow present each day,
I feel the child of history has taken control,
Running rampant within the holes of his soul,
There is nothing in his cupboards,
They are cold and bare,
No resources to draw on to fix what’s not there,
What does he need from outside and within?
When will he feel whole inside his own skin?
My need to rescue, comfort and hold,
Is pulling me strongly, I must not fold,
I want to step in and cover his wounds,
Yet I know I cannot fill his shoes,
He is the adult with the child still young,
Hiding waiting for the battle to be won,
The rupture in his self may tear him apart,
The holes are so deep and penetrate his heart,
Oh how I wish to sew and mend his pain,
Fix him of his anger, guilt and shame,
And as I watch his struggle and need,
I long to cut the ivy that binds like a weed,
To release him from his terror and hurt,
That’s buried beneath the layers of narcissistic dirt.

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