Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Scullery Maid

I scrabble at the outskirts of your life,
Your scullery maid of sorts,
I wash your clothes and dishes, feed you
and provide you companionship when
you ring your tiny bell,
You are the sick old woman in the West Wing
of the mansion,
and I am continuously scraping up the remains of
your humanity,
Your mess and your miserable life,
I used to try valiantly to be part of your world,
To be a piece of your happiness,
But you shove a dustpan in my hand and
force me to sweep myself from the corners
of your crumbling life,
As if I don't exist,
As if I never really were here at all,
I suppose this is your way of coping with life,
At least - that's what your pitiful excuse for a therapist
would have said...but what did she ever know...

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