Why do we break down and hurt?

Why does no-one see the pain in our eyes?

Why are we no longer alright?

I don't want sympathy, I want help.

Sympathetic faces flood the room, faced towards me.

I feel them thinking I'm not enough to handle this. They're wrong, I don't need someone to lift me up I need someone to give me a hand.

But everyone's hands are full, holding someone else's hands.

The way they've reverted is almost scary, I'm just glad they're not crazy.

We all need help yet can't swallow our pride but the reason I won't take help is because I'm supposed to be the help.