There is a stranger
In my house
In my room,
And my mirror.
She has fat protruding
From her stomach
And thighs
And wears a worn out look
On her face.
She is covered in blemishes
On her chest,
Back, and arms.
Her teeth are crooked
And her friends desert her,
Bridges slowly being burned,
Possibly to the point of no return.
Yet her lover hangs on her,
Sometimes feeling like a stranger
To herself.
"I cannot save you"
She whispers to her.
She turns to me,
And smiles with crooked teeth,
I cry and cry.
How did she get so comfortable
In my bed?
My couch?
My dinner table?
How did her long swirling hair
Turn into a ragged tangled mess?
Her smooth skin now covered
In marks of flesh growing too fast?
How have I let her do this?