Where Are My Words?

the chair

I'm just sitting in this chair with the label "relationship."
It doesn't seem to fit my body comfortably, but
it's better than all of the other chairs and
even though it's kind of a sucky chair at the moment,
it still makes me happy and I'm still glad I have it.

It's like an awkward fold out chair where you're trying
to situate and separate the two pieces
to get the "folding out" part of the chair to work,
but it's broken and stuck so you just sit in it while
it's half open.

Everyone is staring at me because I'm sitting
in this broken chair when there's a room crowded
with chairs, stacked to the pale dusty ceiling,
that I could sit in.
It doesn't help that my love for attention combined with my depression
places me in the front of everyone,
nose inches from the wall and my back slouching towards them.
They tell me I can't turn around,
and I'm left screaming at the wall.
Screaming for it to stop talking when it's really
the people behind me.
But I'm a rebel.

I turn my relationship around and,
as much as I had been wanting to face people,
I freeze in fear and their voices rise within my head,
no mouths move.
The wall I was once yelling at is against my back,
but I don't think it wants to have my back anymore.
It's whispering in my ear:
"Everything is okay, Caitlyn."
"I'm always here, princess."
Even though this wall is my supporting structure,
I feel, with all of the world on my shoulders, it'll collapse too.

How am I supposed to stop my chair and wall
from breaking with me?