But I don't mind.

She tells me she's not like me.
Tells me time and time again that she's normal.
She whispers these words as if they were a prayer.
A cry for help to the very god she claims to worship.
But I don't mind, no. I never mind.

She tells me she's sain.
But the scars on her wrist say other wise.
Her records tell a completely different story.
She's tried twice so far and doesn't think I've noticed.
But ropes tend to leave burns and depresson leaves wounds.
But I don't mind, no. I never mind.

She tells me I'm sick.
Sick in the mind for trying to persuade her into something so unholy.
While she swallows another pill.
How am I the sick one?
But I don't argue.
And I don't mind. As I never seem to at all.
Maybe something is wrong with me.

She tells me she's done.
Done with me trying to make her into something she despises so much.
While I only told the truth.
I never made her lips graze mine.
I only comforted her while she cursed her existence.

She told me she loved me.
With ink that had been smudge by what I assumed where tears.
I knew then she has succeeded in her unmaking.
But I don't mind.
No. I never mind
Because I loved her too.