Recovery’s the goal,
progress presumed,
yet expecting perfection
jerks me back to disease.
An ever shrinking chunk
of me remains unrepentant,
unreachable, unloveable, ugly.
Others enter these rooms
obnoxious, argumentative,
angry, unloveable.
Love, though, knows no bounds,
reaches across to unlovely.
When I let myself love these,
only then can I love that chunk
of me.