I am a flickering lightbulb, sputtering and spitting,
A candle burned to the last of its wick.
You are sentient light.
You are Beautiful.
When I tell you this, you turn your head away.
“I’m a *******”, you say. But I don’t understand
how you can’t see the perfection that you are;
Your eyes, your face, your body.
I don’t understand.
I wish I could make you see,
But I have long since accepted that I cannot.
I think about you a lot.
A lot.
And I don’t know if you think about me.
I want to help you, I want to help you,
but no amount of love will make you well.
I know this, but claws and fangs tear at my insides when I watch you destroy yourself
night after night after night after night.
There must be an end to this pattern.
I want to hold you until it does.
And kiss you, and stroke you arms and face and hair.

I hope you think about me.
Not in passing, not as an afterthought,
and I hope this wish isn’t selfish.

I want to hold you until it passes.
to be allowed to "be there" in any capacity I can.
I want to help,
I'm screaming.
I want to help
but no amount of love will make you well.