i know that you do not love yourself.
you never pretend you do, just
sometimes pretend to be alright.
i like to think i understand you
better than that, that i see through
red-painted lips faking a smile;
i like to think i know you a little;
enough, at least, to see beneath
the skin i fear is littered with scars and
see the dark blue sea of nothingness.
i feel like i can watch you drown some days,
pulled under by its waves of despair
and somehow, you're forgetting how to swim.
i wish that i could pull you out,
but i cannot reach you and i wish
that i was strong enough, just enough.
i know this is not how it works and yet
my heart clenches because i know
you are in your room crying
and i am in mine, too far away,
and all i can do is fill pages with thoughts
and worries, handwriting shaky.
i do not know how to help you;
i do not know how to be enough
to make you feel good enough.