Talking to them

Somebody save me from my fall,
the one I started years ago.
When I walked away from her call,
downwards is the only way I know.

I say this to an empty room,
just to allow it to be said.
The spider, fly, and broken broom,
tell me I've lost my head.

They insist no movement is felt,
no breeze pushes them aside.
Remind me I played my cards dealt,
they suggest a part of me has died.

I hate talking to them.