Girl with a crowbar

She pries. She asks, in a smooth and re-assuring voice, question after question I would rather not answer. I hide behind my little cardboard mask. It smiles through the pain, it chuckles to make it clear that "it's not that bad," but I force true answers out with the laugh. Occasionally, frequently, never. How is this supposed to fix me? I'll lower the mask. Just a little. I'm not good at friendships. Absence makes the heart forget. No one calls, so I suppose they don't care to talk. No one calls, and I don't call, and no one calls. The loneliness goes 'round, perhaps. Or perhaps its just me. What do I do? Oh, I carve little keys. Why? To break into the rooms where my friends are hiding. I don't even know what door they would go to. If I did I could just knock. My friends would let me in, right? What if the door never opens? What if I'm just doomed to be lonely? Maybe I'll grind away at another key. Then it's my fault if the door stays closed. It's easier if it's my fault. My heart…