[Author's Note: I've been working on this poem little by little for months. I'm not kidding: we're talking as little as one word at a time some days. But at any rate, it's done. For anyone who liked "Blur," it has sort of a similar feel to it, although this one isn't as broad. I think you'll like it a lot. Let me know…]

She has never been easy to love.

She plays the guitar (and sings, too), but she won't let you listen.

Sometimes she cries when it gets too quiet.

And she really can't take care of herself.

Some days she forgets to feed herself until you show up at her door, arms laden with takeout boxes.

Other days she 'forgets' on purpose.

She tries not to cry when you make her eat dinner.

She tells you almost every day that you should not love her.

She locks herself in her room and screams herself hoarse.

She's still learning how to handle pain.

She goes hours without talking because she can't figure out what she's 'supposed' to say.

She doesn't believe you when you tell her that any words at all would be enough.

She picks at her scars until they bleed.

Sometimes she disappears.

She calls hours later from the alley where her whole world fell apart, begging you to come bring her home.

She tears up the pages of your new, blank notebooks when she gets angry—

Except on the days when she shreds her skin with her fingernails instead.

She insists that sparring until she's bruised all over is not self-destructive.

She is independent to a fault.

When you first wrap your arms around her, she forgets for a split second that you aren't trying to hurt her.

She still thinks you don't know that she takes anxiety medication.

She so badly needs a mother.

She has attacks of guilt over both huge things and things so tiny you can't believe they still linger in her memory.

But none of that can compare to her guilt over her own happiness.

Every so often, she waits until she's convinced you're asleep and then gets up to turn on all the lights.

She'd never admit to you that she's still afraid of the dark.

She can go from snuggling against you to shoving at your chest in panic in a split second.

She cries in her sleep most nights.

She agonizes for days about her required checkups with the cardiologist.

But she's never once let you come with her for moral support.

She spends ages covering up her scars with makeup when she thinks there is even a chance they might be visible.

She yells at you when you tell her they're beautiful.

When you're the last one to get home at night, she has to check for herself that you locked the door.

She forgets that, as well as you can read her, she still needs to put things into words.

She fears judgment more than she will ever admit.

She is still, and slowly, learning how to be part of a family again.

She is a mystery that even she herself can't solve.

She sometimes makes you wonder how she's made it this far to begin with.

She has never been easy to love.

Oh, but she has always been worth it.