I am not a cure for your loneliness.
I can hold your hand, look in your eyes,
and let you know it won’t last forever.
But don’t try to drink me like medicine,
for when I run dry
you’ll toss me away,
looking always looking for a cure.
Don’t you see me,
really see me?
No, how could you,
you don’t even see yourself.
A mirror for your despair.
For you were shown,
in so many ways
that so much of you was unlovable,
not good enough, too rough, wild, impure, dangerous.
To squeeze into a box of acceptable,
you had to chop away at the “bad” bits,
just so someone would finally hold you, rock you,
show you in so many ways
how beautiful, how good, how much love you are.
But forever hungry,
a compulsive lover,
a hopeless romantic,
addicted to love, thrills, sex, drugs.
Make me high, fly me to the moon,
just take away the pain of loneliness.
How can I when it is you, not I,
that chopped yourself to bits.
If you really want to know about loneliness,
ask those parts,
they hold your pain,
and the loneliness is their voice
calling out for your love.