You said you were just grumpy,
that you hadn't eaten.
You said that it had been a stressful week.
You said it wasn't me.
You said you didn't like my game.
You said I didn't have to try to make you feel better.
You put the lid on so tight and firm that the pressure inside appeared as though
it would make you explode.
You pushed it down
and down
and down
and then out.

Out to me, out to them, out to oblivion.
It pushed me away - blew over me, around me, into me.
Deep into me.
Deep enough to move away.

I don't want to see you anymore.
It's so real and heavy as a stone.
But I sit here listening to your favorite song,
thinking about your arms,
feeling you and missing your breath.

You dealt with it the way that I deal with it.
And that's why I hated it so much.
I can't stand the way I cope.
Now I understand the sting that everyone who has ever tried to help me has felt.

Shut them out. The further the better.
Let no one touch your chaos.
You are the only one capable of handling it.
Even you can't.
Cover it up, shut the doors, jam it away, tuck in the corners.
They can't see it if you never show them.
And in moments of weakness,
be damn sure you're alone so no one else has to see it.