And I heard you say that it’s hard enough to love me as it is.
As if the holes in my ears
Are holes in my character.
As if the music vibrating my ear drums
Could strain the heart strings
Of your love for me.
As if the clutter in my floor
Is a sharp pain in your side.
The fact that I’m growing up
Is a tumor, pressing into your skull,
Metastasizing throughout your body.
As if I’m killing you.

Just the thought of me could send you into cardiac arrest, that no doctor could revive you from.

You are sleeping in a coma.
Psychiatrists have cut you open
and picked through your brain,
and you have yet to awaken.

Some days your eyes will flutter,
and for a brief second I can breathe.
Filling my lungs with the stale oxygen,
only to realize
it will never be the same.