Unpaid therapist

Make me hate the things I love
to stop me at the doorstep.

You led me to this heaven
the flowers,
the sweet words,
the melodies I heard.

“You’re hearing things,”
the last words you uttered.

The audacity
to look me in the eyes,
then slam the door.

It mirrored our past,
reminding me who I really am.

Call it whatever you want,
but you left me in between.

You told me you wanted to hold my hand,
but you never really held it.

When you aligned
your bedtime with mine,

there was a time
when you took my hours
as if I owed them to you.

You held my diaries,
reading right through me
as if they were written for you.

Just a second choice,
never the first.

Funny
I always knew.

Yet you took the driver’s seat.
I let you.
I always let you lead.

I listened to your woes,
held your stories,
your fears,
your frowning smiles.

“I care for you”
was really just
a pat on my back.

I misread it
as an unwritten poem.

But such a pen and paper
were never made.

Sandcastles crumbled,
but you screamed happily
at the ocean

while I held your life jacket
- your unpaid therapist.