You know that we need,

yet, you are still the most naive aging being on this planet.

You are what the Earth would consider da disgrace.

You strip your closest surroundings of the ability to gather necessities,

allowing consequential defeat to paint our mouths white.

We nearly choke on our heartbeats, scrambling to barely make ends meet.

I, indeed, choke on the words and feelings of shameful beseech that label me.

I do not want to be that way.

Your balance is horribly knotted and twisted,

and your mouth is the pathway to hot, scorching fire.

I will never cover you in my blanket of trust;

I've seen too many windows shatter before my eyes,

I've seen too many doors slam shut in my face for me to even think of sprinkling an ounce of my trust from my already struggling heart on you.

You always slither out of what we need.

You call us begets for needing the fundamentals of life.

You think my anger is new,

but the seed was planted as soon as you walked through the door.

You carried a attitude of horror and defense, and all your cupboards were empty -

each and every one.

They are still empty, and you refuse to try.

I am ashamed to have you as my **********.