family tree

she slurs her words and talks like a child,
it could be cute in different circumstances.
repeating the same stories, the same information
as if it is new
oblivious to her repetition
oblivious to me.
oblivious to any hierarchy or order that is supposed to exist
a revolutionary?  unlikely.
it's impossible to talk at this time of night
any night
so I give up.
she won't remember anyway.
we could have the same conversation the next morning
the next week,
the next year,
except she'd be rushed, she'd be stressed. . .
she'd still be unavailable.
so what difference does it make?

I may as well be talking to a complete stranger. . .
not even.
A stranger could still be present, could still be interested in getting to know who I am
What I think, what i feel, how I operate.
Might be interested in my opinions, in my life, in my relationships. . .
Might offer me advice or wisdom from their own experience.
Sharing their own stories from life.
Might listen openly about what I have to say.
Might notice that we have difference and be curious about why. . .
But our conversations are very different.
Surface. Shallow.
Something I don't respond well to.

what can I do differently?
I've tried everything.
But it's not my life, I can't change it.
She is running away, as fast and as far as possible
from herself.
Any moment alone, in wait, in question, in wonder, in clarity, will cause the whole structure to collapse, burying her in the rubble. . .
she fears.
So she is never there, the lights are on but no one's home.
She has built her dream family, her dream career, her dream life, but she can not enjoy it.
She has never learned how to enjoy, to appreciate, to be grateful for what is and for what was, simultaneously; because they can not exist separately. . .
or perhaps that is the contradiction which she can not bare.
Attacks are coming from all directions, internally and externally,
No one is an ally, enemies abound.
She can only hope to drown them with liquid poison.
To forget them, to ignore them, to avoid them, at all costs.
At the cost of her life.

I am here.
You invited me for a reason.
I have come to open the windows and the doors of your dream house.
To let out the stale air and the broken past and the imperfections that you have imagined
To break open new doors if necessary, to show you that there is a way out.

That you are safe here, that you can trust again.
I too know what it is like to wish for something other than you've been given,
someone other than you've been given. . .
But have realized the benefit of acceptance of what is.
I am holding out a branch to your island of self-loathing that could change things all around.
I know, because I have been there.
Accept what is given to you, for once.  Please.
How much longer will you torture yourself? and us?
You are beautiful and smart and perfect and everything you've always wanted to be or ugly and stupid and useless and everything you've always thought you were. . .the thoughts only depend on you.  Only you can change them. 
Only you can choose to love and accept yourself.
I can only hold this branch,
It's up to you to grab it.