You pull your empathy from the drawer,
And tug it over your head like an ill fitting sweater.
A sweater you knit for just such an occasion.
But the wool is itchy and distressing.
You move perversely.
I loathe your sweater.
And in turn I loathe you.
You make a mockery of my heart.
I ask for clemency.
You are impervious to my demands.
One day I will boil your sweater in scalding water.
And when you next pull it from the drawer,
It will strangle your vain attempts at compassion.
You cannot become something you are not.
A fool at play and nothing more.
But this is not a game.
Empathy is not a sweater to wear at your whim.
No! Empathy is the yarn itself.
Yarn wound so tightly around the heart,
It constricts with each new affliction.
The yarn entwines itself through the body.
Strangling all logical thought from the brain.
Rupturing the circulatory system,
Spewing emotion from every artery.
An erratic puppet on a string.
Empathy is woven into the very fibre of my being.
It pulls tighter and tighter until I can no longer bear it.
And now as I unravel you with my words,
The yarn grips my lungs.
With every breath I struggle to accept your deficiency.