Poem: How Can You Love Someone Who Doesn't Love Themselves?
"How can you love someone that doesn't love themselves?"
"How can you look in the mirror
everyday and let her know she's beautiful?"
You view pictures that don't make you gag,
you listen to her voice fill a thousand
catacombs but you continue to love
a damaged woman.
"So how can you speak truth
and tell her that gorgeousness is her
Hotness is her body...
"So tell her that happiness
is the most beautiful attribute
she has ever owned."
Music boxes have broken
in her hands, makeup has
never worked to hide a single
blemish or that every other word
has been: "I'm sorry."
You try to understand her mouth
is a box of sins, a pool of thoughts
that is mind of hate; she one day believes
Along with a head she cannot stand,
one she wishes she could smash like
the pink piggy bank that stood
on her grandmother's nightstand.
Wishing her mouth was knitted up
with blue cotton and burgundy paint
because she never knows what the fuck
is wrong in her head.
While every other day is another problem,
another roller-coaster with endless stops.
Causing the cotton candy thoughts not to exist,
so the raspberry pistols in her dreams would
not sit in the palm of her hand.
Ending her voice.
So it wouldn't speak...
So she could finally breathe.
Breathing words into masterpieces,
glistening with hope,
everything becoming her own.
Not causing herself to get locked
into the world of porn or trapped
in the wandering eyes of nude calendars.
Causing her head to shake to view
her body not enjoyable for one to touch.
Maybe it's her selfishness living in
her core; enticing these thoughts
making them feel like she was not enough
for one's man enjoyment.
Again becoming another
hypocrite hidden in sheep skin.
Becoming another part of Pandora's box.
A compartment full of mood
swings, feelings, and actions
wishing them to become diamonds.
Like eyes that wander,
lips that have puckered for the lips of others,
hands that have caressed the faces
of porcelain women with prettier faces
and rose colored lips.
However...her mind is creative
with dull colors of grey hues
So, she tries to decorate her mind with
diamonds, crystals, rubies, and emeralds.
To bury out the racing thought;
when people yell.
Holding her nails from digging
into pure, damaged, glass-like skin
becoming fondled with words that speak;
"Your fine. You're fucking fine."
Still I burn my skin beneath steaming
water...choosing to drown my vines in apple
cider vinegar to achieve the perfect figure.
However her voice still exists...
but to her it's nothing but trouble.
A useless tool...thinking maybe if her body
was better looking it would take away
from the bipolar that rests in it's throne.
Protecting her buried treasure that
wishes for rope to bind her wrists
with ribbons and ankles.
Giving her heart that will
never completely be easy.
Causing her to understand that
cracks will stand and cuts will exist.
While burns of self-induced harm
always will become a remainder
of liquor filled days and cotton candy
Filling her veins with gold
that cannot fix the cracks
or repair a broken mind used
for jungle juice and pixie sticks.
Causing real imaginary abuse
on her skin to become embedded
inside of her insides, staining her organs
blue, sparking embers in her bones
for cracks to appear causing a mind to
lose it's sense of reality.
Wishing she was normal.
Wishing her mind was average,
while depression may have lived
in her fridge or stained it's sickness
onto her lemon sherbet.
Or the way her bipolar stepped
into her shower to follow her own
movement on tile walls and
Still not understanding how
she could be loved; when insanity
had been her lover; depression
her brother; with her bipolar
becoming her worst addiction.