She cleared out your toys,
dropped them
one by one,
into the black plastic
bag, you
couldn't make the
effort to feel
sad.
Not anymore.

The man she'd brought
looked at you
imploringly, he
apologised to
the blankness of
your eyes,
you can't remember
caring,
as your teddy
bears were shoved,
staring, into
darkness.

You just didn't care.

She blamed you,
of course,
everything was
somehow your
fault; books,
dirt,
dogs,
divorce.
It was always you.
Although you tried,
you always
believed she
told true.

It was always you.
Why was it
always
always
you.