What right have I to expect you to know
The things to say and when
And to judge your words and feel so wronged
By what should have been, yet was not then?
You cannot know the way I feel,
What I cannot convey.
With words or movement so little is shown
And there is nothing you can say.
For no matter how you try, or do not,
To understand this 'me'
Some cages can never be opened or bent
When the prisoner does not wish to be free.
So do not feel sad, or guilty, or wrong
When you cannot be all I need
Because I am the writer of this strange book...
Which only I can read.