Why is it that everything is fine until they decide you have issues?
And then suddenly you do?
The holes in the wall more destructive
The time spent alone more reclusive
The passage in your journal more telling.

Why is it that they think I’m crying for help when I’m asking them to leave?
The pleas for solitude more doubted
The reasons for actions more examined
The smallest comment dissected.

Why is it that you want to change me so?
The solitude is good for me
The writing lets the fire out
The therapy so unnecessary.

Why is it that when I wanted help you weren’t interested?
The paperwork more important
The TV more compelling
The fantasy more attractive.

Why is that you’re crying as you leave me underground?
The dark is suffocating me
The box is restricting me
The worms are eating me!

Why is it that a week later you can laugh?
The room boarded up
The photos taken down
The inconvenience gone from your life.

Why is it that I miss you anyway?
The days spent watching over you
The hours spent crying over you
The years I curbed myself for you.

Why is it that I love you so,
When all I do is hurt for you?

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