It’s so hard for me to see it.

I stare at it, talk it through, and analyze it,

But I’ll never feel it like you do.

And I’m sorry for that.

I’ll never understand your self-loathing

Or your constant inward hatred.

I just want you to stop!  …but I know you can’t.

And I’m sorry for that.

We get caught up talking in endless circling metaphors that pretend to lead to a solution but end in

Anger.

Frustration.

Tears.

I’ll eventually push it aside, but you can’t.

I’m sorry that’s how you took it.

I didn’t mean it that way.

I just want to help.

But will I ever be able to?

I don’t feel what you feel.

But I’ll tell you what I can feel:

You’re loved.

You’ve been told it endlessly until the words lost any semblance of their definitions,

But as you forgot their meanings, they grow stronger in our throats.

You are loved.

So I might not be able to feel what you do,

But sit back for a second and think about what I feel.

I’ve watched you suffer and stay sick for so long,

And I know that you are much stronger than I am.

It’s not fair of me, but I’ll ask anyway,

Please, don’t let go.