Why

There are some things I can't tell you
Things that'd break your heart
Things that'd break mine telling you
I've made mistakes, I hurt myself, I hurt others too
But if you knew what I'd done, seen, read, heard, you'd realise why
Why I don't speak to people much
Why friendships are so hard to come by
Why the compliments of a stranger seem suspicious
Why I had to cancel so many play dates
Why I think everyone is plastic, polystyrene and nylon
Why sitting alone reading can be both liberating and painfully lonesome
Why I dissociate myself from yesterday's self and from tomorrow's self and from the me of yesteryear and the year before
Why music in the dark provides the soundtrack to the wetness of my pillow
Why the pillow used to be wet with blood
Why the pillow used to prop up a head so fucking lost and scared

No one was there for me during the hard part
And now the hard part is over
No one wants to know me still
Or would I even notice if someone did?
Misanthropy is an inevitable consequence of mistreatment
But God, screaming in pain into an empty abyss gets boring.