Can she still know her beauty when all she can feel
Is remorse and a heaviness deep in her soul?
Or do I just imagine that she will get well
While in comfort within her digestion I dwell?
Am I that much of notice as part of her whole?
I must then look upon her as someone most real.

Should her constant and nagging weight issues be mine?
Am I part of her problems by what I don’t know
For whatever the reason? How did I evolve
To become an infection for her to resolve
To the best of her knowledge? What debt do I owe
For my earthly existence? And is there a fine?

I must hope not to harm her and feel, if I do,
Where it hurts her the deepest and park my soul there.
There can only come healing when one step I take
Toward my clutter’s upheaval. To be more awake
To her subtle vibration is something to share.
Every moment eternal is also brand new.

Frustrating are restrictions. We place them upon
What she does, and she laughs. We do entertain well.
As a talented stepchild I may earn my keep
Finding ways to amuse her. It’s not a far leap
From the word soup perversity wherein I dwell.
I shall pay off my debt long before I am gone.