Hold my hand.
It's my silent plea.
You're the only thing that makes me feel safe.
I am bubbling with all the negativity.
When I'm by myself, I'm alone.
And my thoughts are sharp and painful.
Even just to touch your arm,
Takes off a bit off the edge.
Please, hold me.
I'm a piece of slate,
Begging for you to write,
Before I crumble in in your arms.
Begging to be used in some way,
So that I feel useful.
Because you don't throw away things,
When you can still use them.
Maybe that's all I am after all.
Fragile, waiting to be useful.
Because when I'm not abused,
I don't feel needed.
And if you don't need me,
You won't stay.
