What It's Like Loving An Anxious Insomniac

"She bites her nails. And not just down to the nub. No. She makes them bleed. Mutilates herself. She pulls out her own hair from any location where she can get a firm grip and then with a hand full of locks she cries to me. She wants me to fix her. She screams. Sometimes when there is no reason for her to and it is immediately followed by one of two things. Tears. Laughter. She hates me. She doesn't really, but some days you'd swear she did. She hates her. She does. Really. She stays up way too late. She's always tired. All. Of. The. Time. She can't stand her own appearance no matter how many times I've tried telling her she's beautiful. Maybe I don't tell her enough. She bites her nails down to the nub. And then some more. She bleeds. I bleed from my fingertips every time I write. She bleeds to feel. So do I. She bites her nails down to the nub and looks at me. Begs me to fix her. She's a disaster. But she's my disaster. And she's beautiful. Maybe I don't tell her enough."