You send me down an abyss, endlessly attempting to grasp a ledge.
Problems you cause for yourself push me further.
I do not know how to stop your self-destructive rampage.
Trying to talk some sense to you is arguing with a storm,
the only response being a strike of lightning
and an angry army of raindrops. To fill yourself, you drain me.
A mop bucket used to clean your personal messes.
A welcome mat in which you wipe all of your issues onto.