Broken Pocket

Now I think of it: you became a broken pocket. I trust you, though I know I shouldn’t, because everything I place inside just slips away. I want to stitch you, to mend you, but how can I help someone who refuses help? I always stop being me to turn into you, living things I once loved but now annoy me. A simple problem, always returning, and I look at it as if it were an impossible monster. Everything is in disorder. I want to fix it, but something holds me back. Only one way out remains: to live in that place you fear, and in the end understand why we all arrive there.