Everyone wants to know how you are. 

They assume I know, 

or keep tabs on your life.

I suppose I keep the memories,

but I let you leave in times far past. 

You hurt me, 

and I prefer healing,

especially becuse my secret talent is creating

my own bruises and scars. 

Pain was assigned to me long ago. 

I did try, I admit. 

I pushed for a while, because I loved you. 

Correction: I love you. 

It's still current. 

I care more than you care to see. 

I'm not even sure why. 

You just gave up talking to me. 

I was called a liar so many times, 

but you're the ones who didn't do

what you said

and so I suppose

what you said 

oughtn't matter. 

I don't know how you're doing.

But if you want to tell me, 

I'm here.