Maybe I was wrong

I don't make you handmade cards because I'm cheap.

I make them because I think you'd like them better.

I make them because they're a piece of me you can keep.

You throw them away, and tell me to "put them somewhere".

You tell me, "I didn't do anything this year, I was going to but I didn't wanna go out."

I just say it's fine.

But you don't hear me, you're already lost in the television.

I don't say just one sunflower would have made me cry.

Out of happiness that you remembered, for once, something about me and didn't use it against me.

I can feel the filth in my bones.

Oh

"Sometimes I feel like you're going to let yourself die before you ever ask for help," he avoided eye contact as I focused on his mouth.
I didn't want to hurt him and tell him he was right.
I didn't want to put more damning evidence on the table
of what an awful person I really am;
how I will never tell any of you when I really need help.
When I really need you to stay,
I will never beg you,
even though I want to.