Why can't I smile?

I haven't smiled in years.

Unless you count the grimaces I conjure

when a camera dares draw near.

Why can't I sing?

I used to all the time.

Tunelessly and horridly,

but I used to because my voice was mine.

Why can't I laugh?

It wasn't a painful sound,

close to a zebra braying,

but fun nonetheless.

Why can't I go home?

This one I know.

There is no home for me.

Not right now anyway.

Why do I feel this way?

Why when he says my name,

it's almost like he's praying,

but when she says it,

it's a poison that she can't get rid of soon enough?

Why is it that I 

am worthless

useless

disgusting

dirty

foul

ugly

hideous

a disgrace

a terrible mistake

a waste of space

when to him I am

beautiful

funny

intelligent

witty

perfectly imperfect

pure

amazing

his.

The pain is far to great

to let me truly love.

But he doesn't mind,

he thinks I'm worth it.

So maybe I'll be on the mend,

fixing myself to see my death eighty years from now instead of eight minutes.

Fixing myself 

out of love for him.