Dear Diana,

Who loses herself

In empathy for everyone else

From the tiniest field mouse

To her own abusers,

But who holds sympathy

For her own lifetime

Of pain

Like trying to keep water

In her bare hands.

That sadness slips

Right through her fingers,

A concept so unfamiliar

It’s ungraspable.

Dear Diana,

Who couldn’t feel sorry

For herself

Until this week

When her therapist

Told her her own damn story

In third person,

Who had to hear her own hurt

As if it had all happened

To someone else,

And then realize

The someone else

Is her,

In order to allow herself

The sadness

She always reserves

For literally

Everyone and everything else.

Dear Diana,

Who goes to great lengths,

Leaps through extensive

Mental hoops,

To avoid self-acknowledgment.

Who treats her heart

Like an item up for auction,

Calling for any bidders,

Any bidders at all,

Rather than allowing herself

To stake a claim.

Dear Diana,

For whom compassion

Is a black hole

While self-pity

Isn’t even on the same

Astral plane,

Because other people

Have always needed her love

More than she’s needed it

For herself.

Dear Diana,

Whose empathy is

Inexhaustible

And whose soul

Is utterly exhausted.

Dear Diana,

You deserve to

Keep trying

To see yourself too.