You told me once that if we cried in the dark, no one would listen.
Voices heard inside still rooms would often be mistaken for ghosts,
and they will be neglected. But it won’t matter.
I am so used. Rejection is not foreign to me.
Like vultures that prey on carrion. Pain is a friend
I welcome with clenched teeth and misty eyes. Still,
you never cared to give me the key to open the door.
Perhaps, if I wrote it down, would you understand it better?
No you won’t. Reading isn’t done with eyes closed.