The Book of the Dead.

Opening up my old scars,
just laying new ones upon them,
and it doesn't matter what is done,
since I am the one suffering.

It's my blood that is spilled,
It's my tears and my pain that is felt not yours.

It's my despair while waiting on the telephone, being called everything but myself.
It's my anger when I am left to do everything on my own.

It's my anguish when I foolishly keep asking for help,
and it's my torment when I don't.
It's my desolation as I am left with all the paperwork,
and it's my hell when I can't do everyone else's work.

It's my agony regardless of what I achieve,
It's my bitterness over such a crippling life as this,
and your rights to me should be none,
not a word nor any written say,
If my life is my own then so be it,
alone I was and alone I will stay.