What was her fault?    
A desire to have a family?
A sacrifice which created another family?
A dream to be a working woman?
A want to live happy?
A life to see her children achieve big?
A kind hearted nature who always searched her happiness in her people's happiness?
What was her fault after all??

Did you ever think of staying?
Or was leaving the only way
you knew how to love me?

Was I too much,
or not enough?
Did I ask for things
you couldn’t give,
or did you offer less
than you were able?

I wonder if you held back your truth
to protect me,
or to protect yourself
from watching me fall apart.

The answers don’t come.
But the questions—
they stay.
Lodged somewhere between
my ribs and my memory,
quiet,
persistent,
unanswered.

When I write
I write in questions
Well now I ask myself; why?
Why do I have so many unanswered questions?
And the only answer
That I could muster
Was this;

I don't know.
I don't know why you left me.
I don't know what it is that's preventing my recovery.
I don't know what I'm so afraid of.
Or why I'm afraid of it.
I don't even know why I write.
And I sure as hell don't know what I'm gonna do.