Why would he worry about me?
He doesn't know I broke my promise not to hurt myself.
He doesn't know about the scars.
He doesn't know about the bottle of pills beside my bed.
He doesn't know there's a collection of knives in my drawer.
He doesn't know that I write nasty letters to life.
He doesn't know about the reason I sit on the roof.
He doesn't know about how I can't sleep at night.
He doesn't know that even if I do, it's only after the tears.
He doesn't know I carry around a mental list of why I hate myself.
He doesn't know I can't concentrate at all.
He doesn't know I lie through my teeth about how I'm feeling.
He doesn't know that I'm avoiding church.
He doesn't know I'm pushing everyone away.
He doesn't know how lonely I am.
He doesn't know about these poems.
Why would he worry about me?