Why did you stop breathing,
When I wanted you to have so many more breaths?
Why did you leave this world,
When there was so much experience within it that you had left?
Why do I have to live without you now,
When we got no time at all?
Why does it have to be so unfair?
Why can’t you come back once, or a thousand hundred times more?

Why did you die first,
When I am so much older?
Why couldn’t anyone do anything enough to save you?
Why did no one’s efforts work?
Why did you go from being healthy,
To unresuscitationable?

Why am I stuck here now,
Without ever being able to see you again?
What do you think about and do in heaven?
Do you think about me at all?

I’m sorry I wasn’t good enough.
If I could have had a second chance,
I’d do it all so much better.
I miss you more than you could know,
I love you and I never wanted to let you go.

Hi again, it’s been a long time
You have and haven’t been here,
But I kind of thought you’d died.
Well no, how could I ever think that?
Don’t you think I always knew you were there?
It was extremely weird though:
You let me have things.

I walked into shops and I
Spoke to people.
At the beginning of your holiday,
I was sitting in class and trying to bring you back.
When everyone ditches you and even your social anxiety finally does.
I mean wow though, I was walking around and
You weren’t gripping my body,
I just did stuff, knowing that you shouldn’t let me.

Don’t worry, I knew there were still things that you wouldn’t let me do,
I couldn’t get a job like a normal person,
Even though I needed to.
I feel like it sounds stupid though, when I try to explain how far away you are,
Barely there, basically not,
Yet there’s still things I can’t do because you’re not that gone.

So you were really there the whole time,
But it was just so great,
Except from everyone else ruining things.
Social anxiety though? Good; it may as well have been gone.
It still feels like a lie writing this,
Because there’s no way you eased off for basically two years.
That is not a thing.

Now that I know I definitely had some sort of anxiety attack,
I don’t know, I think I’m calm again now
Just don’t think about it, just don’t think about it.
I’ve been reading a story I wrote when you were still wild every day,
I already knew you were more present,
But I found it crazy because I read what I wrote and actually thought:
I don’t even do this anymore.
But I guess I’m home now, in you.

People will read this and think that’s great
(and it is astounding, I’d never believe you),
But I don’t think I feel anything.
Do I get my excuses back now?
Can I use them again?
I have social anxiety, LET ME STAY INSIDE,
Now maybe it won’t be about me being normal like other people,
Because now I’ll know you’re here.

Whereas before it would be like “really, you can’t? I think you can, why not?”
No, wrong topic Chloe,
That’s what people say about your physical health.
And you managed to not come back throughout all that?
No one believed me, but I still don’t think you were there.
I tried so hard to politely prove them they were lying.
I told them how I’m great without you,
But no one ever listens
And now I’m reminded of the things I stupidly said,
So lets just tie all my problems together
And I’ll just go daydream until death again.

Fear of them, I fear them,
No not men, just the idea of them,
Actually no, the idea I quite like;
It’s the non-real reality that scares me,
Terrorises me just a little if I stop to think.
No it’s not men, it’s just people.
Maybe it’s all just my social anxiety,
Talking to me again in a slightly different way,
I mean, I know anxiety can change but it doesn’t, not for me:
I know me,
I just don’t know what I’m scared of really.

I can’t believe I dare to write this,
Go away Chloe, just shut yourself up inside again,
Then you won’t have to think about anyone.
Well that’s a lie, I think about people all of the time;
The people I could have, the people I won’t, people I wish existed but I sadly know never will
(I convince myself they will anyway),
And when they’re not real, I’m not afraid -
Because I’m not afraid,
I started this all up as a game.
Did someone ever tell you, you should never read lists of phobias you know you don’t have?
Well I’m telling you, don’t. You might get some.

But do you ever daydream of your perfect soul mate?
Because then I think of guys, like: real guys that actually do exist
And then I’m just like no, no I’ll stay away,
Not today, not tomorrow, I’m not ready.
Then I realise I’ll never be ready.
I’ve noted the slow progression of “could you really be scared of that Chloe? Sounds pretty stupid.”
So I’m like no, no I can’t be,
And then I get these little feelings sometimes,
Which makes me kind of go, “really are you?”
But I’m not because:
That wouldn’t make sense
And
People who know nothing on the internet say that’s sexist without knowing what they mean.
If someone actually had a phobia of the opposite *** or gender it wouldn’t be their fault, because it’s a ****** phobia.

I don’t have phobias though, not one.
Maybe social anxiety, maybe another one, maybe I’m getting one more,
But really I must just be exaggerating.
I know it’s not a phobia - that’s not what I’m claiming,
But when I imagine having a reality where...
Well it just kind of scares me.

I’m feeling this way,
I don’t yet know how to escape
Yet I know it will evade at some point,
I’ve been drifting in and out,
Without much sound,
For maybe a year now, maybe only a second.
Should I think it’s an overstatement?
Is that what I’ve been lead to know?
Or is it just my mind bringing false accusations to surface?
Could it be because people want to doubt me,
Or because I assume if it’s happened to me it’s just a little bit, it’s only small; it doesn’t matter,
Not at all.

Three years? Four or five? Maybe none,
It’s not real, this doesn’t count.
Anxiety. It’s anxiety they said.
We’ll give you these pills,
Because you’re complaining about something else,
But we won’t acknowledge that.
You feel terrible, but we’ll say we’re treating the thing that you’ve put in some sort of remission.
Listen, listen. Why do they never listen?

It’s not that bad. How do I word it?
I could say I feel dead, but not really,
It’s been worse before,
So I don’t feel like I can use that description anymore.
It will go away soon,
I should be happy.
Actually, should I? I should feel tragic.
I do but I feel good sometimes too.
Why am I trying? No one who sees this will understand.
How about, it’s this:
I want to do something but I don’t feel like anything.
I don’t feel good but it’s not anxiety -
it’s been trickling in, but not this time, it’s not just that.
Maybe my emotions have just gone underground today,
Maybe it thought it would match to how I’m physically feeling.
I woke up so exhausted, I told someone I’m sick,
Still sick,
And they said being tired doesn’t make you sick,
But this isn’t normal tiredness,
This isn’t feeling down so your body can’t be bothered either,
This is one way of what it can feel like
When your body’s done with you,
And mines been done a long time,
But never long enough to care,
And in a decade it still won’t be time,
But I guess I should be content because
It’s only been five-hundred-and-thirty-two days.

I know no one will believe me, but maybe that’s okay,
For now,
After all, I can’t say any of these things out loud.
Like monsters, they would all surround me, laughing maliciously,
Thinking they were right,
They’re not, but how much longer do I have to put up a fight?
No one can know if I feel stressed or upset,
Not sad because then their army will have ammunition,
Meanwhile I have nothing.
Nothing, give me something,
But actually no, maybe I can’t take anymore false hope,
Because everyone, all of them, have ******* me over,
Time and time again.
They think I’m stressed, I’m not ill,
So if I say I’m starting to become stressed, unhappy, not good...
Well I don’t know what will happen,
They’ve already destroyed every single part of me.
I don’t want to give them more reasons to disbelieve my honesty.

I’m sorry for letting the darkness seep in,
So many times, and for telling you about it,
I should have let it fester quietly instead,
Then maybe you wouldn’t have got fed up and left just yet.

I am sick of all this fantasy,
The interrupting memories
And the pain that screams inside the walls of me
In a prison kept there for risk of my insanity.
And where can I scream it all out
Without it coming back to me,
Lurking around to smother me inside it’s mocking misery?

I look at all the words I mean,
Not wanting people to come back right at me,
Reprimanding me for criticising health care professionals
(“They just want to help, it’s their job”
- Well that’s what I thought too,
So maybe someone should tell them to do their “compassionate” job right,
And to think, I wanted to be just like them
But better)
Criticising me for criticising the NHS,
It’s not about the NHS.
I’m not blind to see that this happens everywhere,
I was all for the NHS
I was
“Going to be a nurse”
And so so happy about it,
But they managed to take that from me too,
It didn’t encourage me to do better,
It just made me want to get as far away from them as possible.

So I thought, “don’t post it!”
And just as suddenly recalled that I should not hide this,
Even if occasionally in some twisted kind of way I do feel guilty, like it’s all my fault;
What they said, how they acted, what they thought,
Or just simply of their proposition that I’m ill because of myself.
After all, if I don’t speak out who will?
I think of those who do tell the world of their experiences,
And how when I read about it I felt understood, almost like there’s a place for me,
And how I wish I could be that brave,
Whilst knowing that I’m not.
They remind me that it’s not okay,
To keep being treated this way,
So why not speak out?
The side of me I taught to be nice to myself,
The one that challenges cruel thoughts, tells me that
Shouldn’t I deserve these rights? Shouldn’t I be heard without fear?
People like me have had things they need taken away from them by doing this,
But I never had them in the first place, so why not?

These health professionals have so much jurisdiction,
When it comes to our bodies and how we perceive them,
Even for patients who are headstrong and less vulnerable this can be volatile.
It will be painstakingly explosive.
I suppose optimistically I’d like to hope,
They don’t realise the power at their hands; their words, their treatment
That somehow makes it okay for them
To bruise the strong but delicate souls,
Which they manage to crush so easily, so mercilessly
(Instead of our symptoms)
But then I wonder, I just honestly wonder:
How it could be fathomable that they could look us in our pleading eyes and downright refuse us,
Undermine us, all at once as if we were a common inconvenience,
Like the whole point of their vocation
Is not to help people,
Not only when they need it most, but at all!

Sardonically, I laugh at it now,
How very hard I tried, and was happy to try, to be in this field also,
Because no matter what the cost to my current emotions,
I always told myself, just do this really well so you can be a nurse,
So you can help people.
Each time my life was hard I told myself it’s okay because the end result is that I’ll get to be a nurse to help people.
To help people.
It’s just so funny right? Because the nurse I saw didn’t want to help me!
And I know they’re not all like that,
There are good nurses, good doctors (I hope - I’ve heard if you’re lucky you’ll find one someday),
But I can’t stomach how you could go through all that effort to help someone,
To then be so inconsiderate and futile.

And around about here,
I tell myself again that I’m probably a horrible person,
Because I know not to paint everyone with the same brush, there are good and bad people in everything,
But if I have child one day in the distant future, would I want them to be okay with this?
With the ******* and insufficient “care” I’ve endured,
No. And I would even like to think I would scream it from the rooftops,
But I’m not that audacious or loud enough,
And frankly it’s scary,
Terrifying as hell because while you look at your health care system and see:
Trustworthy, compassionate and caring,
I see: fear and a hierarchy that will never hold you high enough to be heard,
Once one doctor’s said it’s because of your mentality
None of the others will look at you twice unless it’s to see into your psyche and not your physical body.

So part of me may half heartedly deny this when it comes to speaking out about this,
But this is not okay,
And this is not only for me to get the words out somewhere,
But for every other person like me, who didn’t get what they deserved from those supposed to help us,
It is not your fault,
And maybe one day in the long and distant future that we may or may not see,
(Because change takes a long time and not because we’ll die from misdiagnosis - that’s a bit dramatic,
Although accurate for some unfortunate people)
All of us together, we can make a difference.
This is a fight that I never thought I’d be a part of,
A war I never knew or acknowledged existed,
And one day, I want to say that I haven’t lost every single battle of this never ending war.

Dear agonised thing,
Older yet still young,
Thank you for being yourself,
For trying your best,
For being worn down and feeling broken,
Even if we don’t know the use
At least we both got through.

You think you’ve given up
Oh so many times
Just walking through disasters,
Proceeding until it’s done,
It’s over now,
You’re okay,
I promise.

I know you’re weary
Of all the next contretemps,
I know you don’t want to
Spare a thought on it
I’ll say this to you instead:
That it’s safe now,
And you can be safe here and
We’ll hold onto each other,
Because you are my safety
And at the end of the day
All we really have here
Is ourself.

I seek stability in
Almost
Everything,
But I’m sorry,
I can’t offer you what
I ask you to give,
What we both need:
I don’t have a thing

What anyone I could find
Deserves
Is anything, anything other than me,
I guess I’m too broken,
To provide the things I need
For either of us
I know my best won’t be good enough.

Keep out, make sure
You aren’t even close
I’ll ruin everyone not only
Myself,
My limits have been broken since
I realised I wanted so much

In the end,
You would be
Better
Off dead than
Dead with me.

Seeping in again,
Can I wash it out?
These same old feelings
Are coming out to play.

Maybe I should let this settle me,
After all it’s been a while,
Shouldn’t it be nice to know it still exists,
That I am capable of still feeling like this?

Fearful, nervous, agitated
There is no reason, it’s just me.
The only change of plans is that I now don’t have to force it,
I don’t have to go outside,
It usually gets worse when I have to do the opposite,
So this should make me feel relief,
Instead I am still wired.

I am so much
Better
Than you would have me believe,
And each time you do this
I stand taller than you think I can

But I am exhausted
Of being stronger than they all believe,
When it doesn’t get me anywhere.
Anger is starting to quell and fill up my head along with the misery,
I don’t see the point of stopping it.
They give me no reason to conquer anything.

You have no idea
What all of this amounts to,
It actually makes me feel a bit hysterical
About how many things are wrong with this,
How many thoughts and feelings have been conjured from the impact;
The impact,
That you, of course, deny is even happening.

Maybe one day this will all just end,
At least a thousand years from now I must definitely be dead
And then it will be over.
If only I could wake up one day
And pretend this isn’t happening,
And eventually it could actually be convincing.
Maybe there won’t be so many
Emotions
Filling my head like a poison to myself and others and
It could all just be
Gone.
And it never would have happened.

Even if I could get over it,
And pretend it hasn’t changed me,
Pretend it hasn’t caused an ounce of impact:
That would be too much like what you’ve been wanting.
So whatever I do it hurts me
With acceptance or denial
When I can never
Never
Deny any of it.
But you do.
And I’m the last person to go around blaming people,
But oh Hell and Heaven do you tempt me.

I don’t want to have to think about this everyday,
I’m sure it will always be there though
And I wish I wouldn’t have to worry about this,
But every reaction you make causes more damage
And you’re not even slightly important,
It must be good there’s hardly anyone else
Who is actually in my life,
To risk having a similar reaction.

Everywhere they all say,
That’s the thing, all you have to do
Is not to care and then it can’t hurt you.
I must agree I’ve said that too sometimes,
But I don’t care for them at all
I don’t really care what they think
But it won’t ease the tension or aggravation that’s building up inside of me.

Ask me in the night,
How I am feeling?
I’ll still tell you I’m alright,
But part of me won’t want to.

You see there’s this ache
Somewhere inside
Telling me to push it out, to make it escape.
It won’t go.
There’s no point passing it around
It only ever makes people leave.

Yes, right, okay:
Maybe I am delusional, deceptive
And, it’s all my wrong idea
But that still doesn’t make it fine.
Why shouldn’t we worry that our own damage
Will be someone else’s collateral?
Do you not think I’m aware?
Maybe I’m not still naive.

If you’ve come here for the truth,
Then I am coping just fine,
In fact it was better than ever
And all blue skies.
That’s also probably the reason why
People don’t realise.
If you’re around when I’m like this,
If you’re in the way of my state
And there’s nothing left to do,
Then I won’t bother to hide it from you.

Actually, I hate to admit it,
But I’d probably go all out in making sure you knew,
Because what else is there to do?
Where’s the point? Even if you told me where it was, I’m not sure I’d go find it.

But if someone new walks in,
If it’s someone presenting opportunities;
A meaning.
I follow through with that instead,
I get on with it and then afterwards,
When I’m alone,
I close my eyes and remember what I was feeling the last time I pushed it aside
And I dissolve into it
Because I’m back to not caring,
I’m back to believing in how bad I feel
And maybe I don’t mind.

Convalescence,
How are you?
Better,
But I've been saying it
Since the beginning.
Are the whispers inside true,
That maybe I can finally start to believe it?

What did it take,
Some may innocently wonder.
Patience.
With every single breath I make.
I've been half trying to ignore the improvement,
Fearing one moments notice will
Surely steal it all back.
"No," I whisper alone, "I want to be better."

The other half
Astonished,
I try to be proud for the little things now,
So really I should feel
Amazing.

I swear I do very much venerate all of my achievements,
It was the only way,
That I could continue to survive.

Unequivocally honestly,
I'm afraid.
Scared of it all going wrong again.
Waiting to feel the terror of all the endless times I've tried,
Getting thrown right back in my face again.
Because isn't that what's been destined to happen
From the very start?

I've been having an almost
Two month long rest,
A complete break of everything.
It was only meant to last a month, but after that month had been and gone,
It started to actually feel
A little better, brighter,
Less dark.

I'll admit it,
I'm guilty,
Guilty of getting comfortable with how it started to feel.
I didn't want it ripped away from me,
Please.
I know once it's gone it will be hard as Hell to get back,
I've already been through all that,
I am still.

I want to get back to pushing myself.
(Like this)
I never wanted to stop,
But I had to listen,
My body was screaming at me, for me
To stop.
And this evidence is telling me why I had to listen.
It seems you can't beat your body,
Ever, but especially not when it's fighting for you and against you.

And the symptoms yelled
Please stop, please be still,
Like they wanted me to sleep all day,
But still it will take half-a-year for there to be any difference.
But I waited.
I didn't get any choices.

So now, I'm sorry
It just terrifies me that trying,
When I finally let it be,
Might tear me back down, to where I used to be.
I'm not foolish enough to expect this is the end.
Surely when I try again my symptoms will join in too.
They only started to improve
The more I tried to rest.
Yes, eventually - After a lot of effort I got here,
But you have no idea how I tried.
How I limited my actions,
So in a month maybe it won't be so hard.
Now I'm here, I'm worried my efforts will send me back.
Wasted.
Don't make me go,
I don't want to be useless anymore,
I'm still bad but so much better,
Please don't
Stop me,
Hurt me,
Trip me,
Trap me,
Lose me to my own body.
Not anymore.
I'm still here
Fighting.

Why aren't you listening?
Why aren't you listening?
I'm screaming out so you can hear me,
Won't you help me,
Please don't instead scare me,
I don't need more counselling I need you to find someone,
Who will really try and help me.

'Why aren't you listening?' My thoughts scream out,
But being myself, I only sit across from you and nod.
I don't want to be rude to anyone,
Especially not the doctors trying to help me,
But are you?
You keep sending me away.
I feel the tests and scans you order are just to shut me up,
Like you think you're being kind by indulging me,
Or covering your back incase something really is wrong.

Why aren't you listening?
I already know something is wrong,
I live it everyday.
I live with my thoughts too but I'm sure they're not the cause.
I do t suppress things for long,
I like to shout about them,
I like to explain.
Why won't you hear me explain?

Why aren't you listening?
Aren't you supposed to help me?
Yes doctor, I know how it looks,
I know each office I step into will house another you who will think it's either functional,
Or put on for a show instead.
I don't want to be a freak show though,
I want to be your patient.

Why aren't you listening?
Stress and anxiety is all you say,
But not social anxiety now?
That's the only anxiety I have,
So I guess it must be real.
But no
You don't want me to indulge this.
If this is how you treat a young women with social anxiety,
I don't want to know how you treat the others.
Most of the things you say or how you act,
Would set me in a downward spiral on what was an average day before.
I'm not blaming you for my social anxiety,
But perhaps I am for being quite mean and untactful.

Dear Doctor,
I'm trying to still believe
Someone like you will listen,
Who won't be mean and accusatory.
I'm willing myself to hope,
One day I'll meet you who will be nice,
Who will be half as desperate as me to discover what is causing this,
Someone who won't dismiss me.

My first question for the next appointment I go to:
"Will you listen?"

I don't feel like I can,
What's the use?
They all want me to admit I'm broken,
So I keep refusing.
The few times I believe I'm suffering I can't admit,
Because they'll see it as proving them right,
And I need them to understand they've got it all wrong.
I want them to hurt like they've hurt me by their dismissal.
I don't want to see another psychiatrist I just want them to leave me alone,
It's not like they're ever going to help me.
Then there are times I know I just need to keep pushing,
To keep trying to find someone who will believe me,
Someone who won't just say it's because of my anxiety,
Except then my social anxiety comes back,
Because they keep proving to me that there's no way they'll think I'm not just mental.
And maybe sometimes they actually think they're being nice,
But seriously? Are they blind? They would never put up with that themselves.
They push me to my limit,
If it's evident I'm going insane then they should know,
That it's all because of them!
It would drive any emotionally/mentally stable person close to the edge,
But then by wandering over to it, they're proving themselves right,
And I don't want to help them.
They're not helping me.

I just want someone to hear what I'm saying,
And not immediately see "social anxiety"
After all, their labels of "needing psychiatric help" were never there when I needed them,
And I took it like the deepest stab back then,
And now, instead I can't push them away when I don't need them,
I can't escape the "should probably see a psychiatrist", "would probably benefit from counselling" and "symptoms are dissociative and functional"
I can't run fast enough from it -
God knows I can't even run at all,
But professionals tell me that "I can do it" as if I'm making it up,
Or should just try harder.
Do you really think I don't want to be capable of feeding myself food and drink?
At points I could try a thousand percent a thousand times to pick myself up from the floor again,
Will power doesn't work!
It doesn't get rid of physical barriers that everyone else is telling me are some result of trauma, stress or anxiety.

I feel like I've been beaten down so many times already,
I want to find out the truth but I'm too scared of being laughed at,
But I got over that fear that my social anxiety taught me when I first sought help,
I've tried so many times though,
And each time I've guessed the same negative outcome.
It's as if someone really is planning and plotting against me,
Will they not stop till they've gotten me admitted to somewhere I don't belong right now?
Even my reactions would serve as proof to them,
I must just be insane, completely deranged.
"Not normal"
Come on, I won't pretend to miss the meaning of that,
What they really meant was: that's not a mentally healthy person's reaction. Maybe she really is making it up.
The truth is you can't make stuff like this up!
You can't fake shaking the way I do,
Not even more than enough diazepam would cure it.

I know this doesn't help prove my sanity,
And this doubtfully sounds like anything poetic,
It's just I didn't feel like writing, and when I feel sad I can get angry,
I'm just trying to vent and tell the truth,
Because maybe one day, someone who feels as alone and disheartened as me,
Won't feel as bad as I feel.

It's really not glamorous,
And I don't know where I am finding the strength to share this from,
I need to get it out though,
And if anyone who needs to hear this, like me, to find out they are not really all alone reads this and finally feels a glimpse of safety,
Or even to open the eyes of people who wouldn't otherwise understand,
Then maybe this had a purpose.

And if anyone who ever reads this,
Happens to be a doctor,
Or mental health professional:
Please listen.
Please listen to your patients without judgements,
Without immediately linking physical symptoms that sound out of sorts, or that don't make sense, to what it says in their notes about their mental health.
The thing is a lot of people pick and choose what to listen to and when,
And in my experience it always seems to be the wrong choice at the wrong time.
If you have a patient who tells you they desperately need your help,
Or even the ones who are too afraid to ask but are despairingly trying to make you notice, to make you understand what they put up with day by day,
Please, please help them.
And don't you dare tell them, like one told me, to "throw away your crutches, I don't like you using them"
Because you are killing every shred of dignity that they are trying to cling onto.
All we want is to be taken seriously,
WE are trying to get better,
But are you really trying to help us?
You may think you are but perhaps you're probably not.
Please realise, that you're in such a respectful position that it's important how you handle what you say, your responses.
Please understand how you have the power to break vulnerable genuinely sick people.
Please believe people like me and listen when they say they don't think it's psychological.
Please listen.

The street is silent, as she walks down,
Starlight surrounds her, all around.
She wants to be alone, she wants to go,
But all she wants to do is be at home.

She can't face the life there though,
The reactive circumstances,
Facing everyone else face up to stuff,
The things that she just wants to quieten down.

Pacing the empty streets, she sighs,
"Goodnight to the world, I'll never say goodbye."
She knows she can't walk this path forever,
People will wonder 'what that crazy girl is making holes in her shoes for?'
Never good at saying goodbye,
She goes back to her warm house,
Submitting herself to trying to understand everyone else,
But according to most, she picks the wrong people to understand.

Whilst she stumbles up the stairs,
Because she's not very well,
And she still needs more rest,
She's feeling upset with the reason of her silence,
For this only makes the noise in her mind more violent.
She wants to be heard, and also she doesn't,
Because she knows the importance of the needs of others,
Even when they conflict her own,
So to make herself feel better,
For some of the cold thoughts inside her head,
She attempts to tell herself, it's because she's trying to be a good person first, instead;
Or else she'll think she's being selfish, for wanting to be able to confide in someone.
Maybe a sympathetic person outside the situation,
Could understand how she feels and why she views things as she's starting to.

She just doesn't understand,
Why it's so easy,
For everyone else to cut people out.
This is her come down,
When she thinks that perhaps, she too, would be better off with out.

'Can you get rid of everyone who splits off from others?' She wonders.
'Not really', she answers, 'because there would always be someone else,
There will always be someone to leave someone else.'
'It's okay', she tells herself, 'because eventually they'll all have left me too,'
Because surely after the amount of people that leave her,
There should be a time when she really is completely on her own.

Everything about the future is so different now:
Thinking about the future before,
Used to be like fluffy white clouds,
Hopeful and filled with friends,
Back then, I could never have imagined not having friends
And I'm not even the type of person who's magically friends with everyone,
But I always assumed I'd still have a few,
And then it wouldn't matter so much how many people hated me,
Hypothetically, if anyone even bothered enough to.
I'm not sure they would though,
Because I don't feel like anyone even sees me,
Not anymore, and probably not in the first place,
But I didn't care then, enough to notice.

I yearn to give you everything
That they do not give you,
I want to give you rest and comfort,
As I help you pull through.
If you need taking care of,
I'd promise I'd be there -
But you're so far away,
I feel like I'm not there.

Miles may separate us,
But in my heart I hold you close,
And if I had the chance,
I'd never let you go.

I spend parts of my days,
Planning out ways,
Of how to get you back.
I know you wouldn't mind it much,
But there's always obstacles in attack.

I think you are okay, or at least on the surface,
I have to make myself trust
That you are happy in that family,
That I've been taken out of.

Knowing from experience though,
It will probably hurt one day,
Or at least for the oldest of you.
And I will wrap you up warm
And try to empathise,
Never the less, I will try my best
To bandage it all up and make it the most it can be.

And if you wanted, I'd hide you away and bring you everything you need.
For me general daily things are hard, if socialisation's involved,
But I'd try my best for you,
Because that's what you're supposed to do
For the people that you love, for family.

Lately I've felt that they're stealing you all,
That they're cutting me out.
Our mother only wants me on her terms,
And that's not how it should be;
I would walk over mountains for you, you see.
I can't come to you, but I have tried getting you to me.

Still, I worry that one day,
You'll think I gave up,
You'll think that I left you
And nothing could ever make that true.
I will always try to do what's right by you.

I don't want you seeing the wreckage before you need to,
Before you can handle it.
I need to know you're safe, not sorry.
I'm starting to wonder here, if maybe I'm just being dramatic.
But this is some of the reason that I pretend or hide it,
With the act of being a somewhat good daughter,

Well really it's also because:
It's hard not to do the job when you're with her,
Almost as if it pulls something from me;
Like it's my fault for not having what I want,
And if I'm good in that moment I'll have it.
Except it,
Never comes.

I miss you four,
And I'll always love you more.

I always give most people the benefit of the doubt,
Whether they seem like they should receive it or not,
So why should I keep doing that now?
It usually only turns out to be wrong.