Apathy

I helped you out of the grave you’d dug for yourself. I cleaned the dirt from between your fingers. I taught them how to wrap around hope, instead of self-hate.

I handed you sunlight, pulling it from the sky even when it scorched my hands, waiting for it to cool enough to warm you instead of burn you. I placed safety nets above the ground every time you looked like you might jump from a high place.

I wove you healing. I built you a shelter. I collected every piece of hail that fell from the sky, so it wouldn’t cut you when you insisted on sitting out under the storm. I leapt in front each lightning strike, blocking your body with my own.

But most importantly, I stayed. Even when you handed me blame in the form of a chain around my ankle. Even when you discarded your problems at my front door, in a ripped envelope with no return address, disappearing at their arrival. Even when you handed me apathy in an empty glass vial labelled goodbye.

How could you deliberately drag down the person who always chose to pull you up? How could you take a knife to a helping hand?

You gave me cruel carelessness for every time I begged for closure. My only regret is believing this would have a different ending.