Ours is the most complex relationship I've ever had.

 

 You, a walking paradox, love to complicate. 

I want to help you, I give so much of myself to you,

and yet, I am never rewarded for it. 

Every time you make some progress or see reason,

you ruin it, subconsciously thinking you are unworthy. 
 

And while I'll always be there,

or wherever you need me to be,

dropping everything for you,

you need to put work in, too. 

I cannot change who you are for you. 
 

You say that you tell me everything,

but you have this awful habit of 

letting drunken lips divulge secrets,

a sick mind consciously bringing 

maligned subconscious self destructive desires to fruition, 

and I, a forced bystander, as you tell me

about how you're going to erase any and all progress. 
 

You, consumed by self hatred,

are a master of self destruction. 

Maybe it's my age, maybe it's my naïveté, 

but I thought if I showed you enough love,

it would be enough until you learn to love yourself.

 

You need to confront the ugliest parts of yourself 

and not just wallow in them or push them off onto me. 

I can guide you, but I cannot fix or motivate you. 

Every time you destroy what fragile structures we've 

composed, you fail to realize that you're hurting me too. 

That, or you just don't care. 
 

This endless routine is tiresome, morose, and ugly-

to give me hope for you and you to dash it all. 

I know you're better than this, prove me right. 

But I was wrong, too- I thought I could immerse

myself in your issues to escape my own. 

I hadn't anticipated your issues to become my own. 
 

I want nothing more than to see you thrive. 

I know that you're capable of being a healthy,

dynamic, functioning woman- I've seen it. 

And no matter the self-inflicted setbacks, 

I have never given up on you. 

I ask that you do the same.