Patches

Your words cause my sickness,

your silence; my strife.

You want me to believe

you won't stab me,

when I saw you 

pick up the knife.

I am tormented by

how little you cared

about how much you shared,

which wasn't yours to share.

I am hurt by

how easily you lie

while I vanish into thin air.

When I needed

a soft place to lay my head,

you gave me a rock

instead of a bed.

You gave me a tent

and a pinch of salt

when I needed a bandage,

and a sturdy vault.

I will pick up the pieces.

What once was, will be patches.

I will try to believe

you won't burn me,

if you don't let me hear you

light the matches.