Every morning, I see you weeping, watching as tears drip from your grime-covered face.
In the most sadistic way, it comforts me to know that your tears are from my neglect, it’s motivating yet overwhelming.
Every night I’m dragged out of bed, dancing through the darkness of dirty clothes to witness your glossy eyes watching me gently.
No matter how hard I lay my hands upon you, you continue to cry. I know you’re crying because I’m not him, I can’t fix you.
Yet, I wonder if I will ever have enough time to understand what brings you such sorrow.
Your silent screams slowly plummet into depths beyond my comprehension.
But I do know that one day there’ll be a time when you’ll learn to hide it, and you won’t grieve until you’ve been directed to weep and I’ll be there watching you, washing my hands in your sorrows.
Until then, you’re just a bullet on my to-do list, silently waiting to bother me.
Tears of Neglect