In the crook of my sanity
sat this poor little me
bereft of reason
naught of gold
one with the concrete
so cold and bold
not for wisdom
never for hope
full of wishes
for food and cloth
if I beg, will it stop?
if I cry, will I drop-
if I jump, will it be better?
and I could laugh
and cry
and tell them I am
still, still stuck there
now, better at hiding
full of warmth
from my blood sweater
sewn from shame
and disappointment
it never gets better
it only gets quiet
and you drown in silence
and acceptance,
that fate is this
it is meant to be.