...or leave me in your wake.
You never believed me when I told you
I was not some do-it-yourself, weekend project;
these holes are beyond your repair
and you simply have to live with them.
But you thought you could fix me.
You have wasted your staples and plaster
and spread paint over casts
that never even fit.
The dust of the drywall has settled
in the hollow of my throat
and choked out my laughter,
and I am simply tired.
These halls were meant to be tred lightly.
I tried to warn you, but you,
thinking yourself experienced,
announced your arrival with loud steps
and by swinging wide the windows,
and proceeding to tear out the frames
so you could make them anew.
So if you cannot learn to tiptoe,
I will have to draw the shutters
and remember how to lock the door at night.
Those old muscles will ache
but it won't be hard to relearn.
For I am Misery's daughter,
and you thought you could fix me.
It hurts to rip out stitches,
but you know, you never put them in right in the first place.