Will loving him repair his broken heart?
Will kind words heal wounds inflicted?
Will patience show him he is worth waiting for?
Will forgiveness show him
That he can look forward now, and not back?
Can X's and O's fill
the crevices and canyons of his soul?
He cannot find liquor strong enough,
nor painkillers numbing enough,
no cut deep enough,
or risky behaviours risky enough to mask his pain
He says "it happens"
she shrugs as he tells you
the pieces of his puzzle he'd rather forget
Never sheds a tear,
but you can see him shake when he has to
"be a man" at 16
six schools, four years, no one he can count on
"I'm the one he comes to" she says
"When his mind is not with him,
when he drink or the drug sweeps his thoughts away
like a forceful wind,
his subconscious longs for me"
He calls her late into the night,
his voice a mumble
and his words nonsense
She speaks to him softly, comfortingly,
until she can hear his gentle snoring.
Then she cries herself to sleep,
because she's not sure if he'll ever be better
or if he'll ever say " I love you"
without alcohol as his wingman
Or be able to make it through the day without
a sip
a puff
a cut
And she can't help but wonder: is loving him enough?

He is Peter Pan,
I realize with a chuckle;
Some boys never grow up:
he surely hasn't, probably never will
He thinks he is immortal and probably he is
He is a dream, a fleeting shadow
Always chasing a piece of himself
And a girl he can love
But he never finds what he needs
He's missing a mother;
no woman can care for him like a mother
and a lover
He's a mischevious charmer
He'll appear suddenly;
steal your heart, leave swiftly
Leaving his Wendy to search for traces, glimpses of him
For her whole life

"He'll always have a place in your heart" they say
No.
"Someday you'll give someone your whole heart-except that piece"
No.
I don't want his name tattooed on my heart forever, impossible to erase
I don't want this section of my soul, this thriving garden
in the black hole that is my mind
Even though it's raining in that small slice off paradise,
rain makes the flowers grow
I don't want my tears to water the garden that he planted,
I want to burn it, burn it all
Sure, my last thread of hope will be consumed in the fire,
but at least his voice won't haunt my dreams
Maybe the memories and his voice
His words, his name
Maybe they will be reduced to ashes as well