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

smile?"

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

you'll despise.

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

and bluish-pinks.

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

depressive states.

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

rushing water.

Still not understanding how

she could be loved; when insanity

had been her lover; depression

her brother; with her bipolar

becoming her worst addiction.