Knock Knock

You took my hand and shook my shoulders

But my fall had already come.

I wasn't going down a dark path- I was

Hurtling forward on it, branches snapping in my face

Leaving stinging welts that used to hurt but didn't anymore.

You were yelling and knocking on my mind's door

Sorry postman, I'm home, but your care package isn't getting picked up today.

Your supportive flowers will wilt

As you give up on me,

And your understanding chocolate will spoil and grow stale

As you look down on me.

There are three other care packages on the stoop

You can leave your name and the number for the local rehab

On top of the others.