I tell you things because I think you’ll understand.
No. It’s because I want you to understand me.
They’re just words. They are neither plea nor demand.
I need just a listening ear who can leave things be.
It’s a mental jigsaw that I’m trying hard to build;
In a hurried verbal scramble for the misshapen pieces,
With my troubles quickly I have your ears filled.
You think I vomited on you? That’s not bile that’s faeces.
But even as you wipe yourself clean of my filth,
You try to help me; you want to make it go away.
Frozen in the headlights shining down my guilt,
I fervently assure you’ll that I’ll be OK.
You see through the blithe diversion, the tactic futile.
More futile is how you feel, unable to set me free.
But if ever I’m lost, it won’t be your number I’ll dial;
Or you’ll never realize – you needn’t feel responsible for me.