Every girl deserves to be reminded of how beautiful they are.
Every girl deserves be told they are loved.
Every girl deserves to know that someone is always there for them.
Every girl deserves support.
Every girl deserves someone to talk to in the middle of the night.
Every girl deserves to know how amazing they are.
Every girl deserves someone that makes them happy.
Every girl deserves a shoulder to cry on.
Every girl deserves to be treated like a lady.
Every girl deserves to know how special they are.
Every girl deserves to have fun.
Every girl deserves to be happy.
Every girl deserves to be told that they are perfect.
Every girl deserves to be loved.

But sadly,
Not every girl has that.
Most girls sit alone in their rooms at night,
And cry.
Because no one is really there for them.
No one reminds them of their assets.
No one sees their beauty
People take advantage of them.
And when those girls look in the mirror,
All they see is their flaws and imperfections.
They look at themselves in the reflection,
And hate what they see.
They cry for what seems like forever.
Then wish that they were someone else.
Someone prettier,
Someone better,
Someone happier,
Someone skinnier,
Someone richer,
Someone with a better life than their own.

But they don't see their strengths.
And most of the time,
They never will.
Girls only see their ugliness,
And that's always what they will see.
Society has formed an image of women.
You have to look like models and celebrities,
Or else you're considered ugly.
You have to have a perfect body,
Or else you're considered fat.
But all a girl really needs is someone to tell them they are beautiful the way they are.
They may never actually believe it,
But at least they know that you think that,
And it makes them start to transform their vision of themselves,
Into what they actually are,
Which is a beautiful girl who is perfect in every single way.

Mistakes were made.
Getting involved with you was a mistake,
Falling for you was a mistake.
Choosing not to see you again because it's wrong was a mistake,
And starting to see you again is a mistake.

Ahh sweet mistakes.
The imperfections that make life so beautiful.
I will gladly make mistakes with you.
My intellect shouts 'this can only end badly'
I don't care.
Each moment with you is beautiful,
I choose to experience every one to the full.

Tomorrow can look after itself.
Today, my sweet mistake, I am yours.

I met a girl
A long time ago
Her name was Mary and she was quiet

One day she got a notecard
Inviting her to a party
Now this was the seventies so the note wasn't sketchy
And the boys who invited her were Itch and Poopsie
And no, those were not their real names,
They were nicknames so it wasn't sketchy

So she went to this party because she was the new girl
And that was a mistake
So she went to this party and made a lot of mistakes
So when Itch and Poopsie invited her back
She made the same mistakes
Over and over
Party after Party
Mistake after Mistake
Again and Again
And Mary, she was being crushed
With the beer bottles
And the invitations from Itch and Poopsie
They were taking her everywhere
All over the world
But she had trouble remembering the sights and the smells
And the only thing she could taste
Was it tears or the beer?

And then it stopped.
She woke up in a different state and a different city
And no one heard from her again
Itch and Poopsie went looking for her
But they couldn't even recognize her shadow
She hid for a very long time
She didn't go to parties
But she still made mistakes
Over and over
Man after man
Punch after punch
Bruise upon bruise
Until he broke her bones and broke her heart

And this time she made it stop.
She packed her bags for a different state and a different city
And no one heard from her again
He went looking for her in alleys and park benches
But he couldn't even recognize her shadow
She hid for a very long time
And she refused to make mistakes
It was over and over
Never again and again

I met a girl
A long time ago
Her name was Mary
And she was very, very
Quiet.

My wife, a psychiatrist, sleeps
through my reading and writing in bed,
the half-whispered lines,
manuscripts piled between us,

but in the deep part of night
when her beeper sounds
she bolts awake to return the page
of a patient afraid he'll **** himself.

She sits in her robe in the kitchen,
listening to the anguished voice
on the phone. She becomes
the vessel that contains his fear,

someone he can trust to tell
things I would tell to a poem.