I thought that I knew her.

I thought that I had her wrapped around my finger.

Her figure:

I thought I could see beauty in every curve,

roll,

and imperfection.

I thought she was mine.

But every now and again,

I lose her and that perfect image I had.

That image:

reinforced by false ideals

that would only hurt me, but they appeal 

to more than just me and I want to reset it;

To regain that subtle fog around me mind that I used to feel

that buffered the hits to my brain.

The buffer:

The one that let her be content

even when she didn’t force herself to laugh.

The one that let herself know she wasn’t alone

even when she lay sovereign and awake in her bed.

The one who when reminded she was loved

believed all that.

The one who knew that the way to solve her problems

wasn't to count to tally marks on her wrists again.

So when I’m told to snap out of it, and collect the fog that pieced together who I am,

I’m not sure if I can guaruntee 

That the person in my reflection 

is the same person who they think I am.

I thought I knew what she was all about;

The ups and downs and the ins and outs,

but maybe I was wrong. 

After all

Even the closest ones too her tell her differently than what she supposedly had known all the while long.

I thought I loved her,

but perhaps the person I thought I knew

was what I wish I’d been all along.