I am sitting here broken,
angry,
and hurt.
Your words replaying in my head over,
and over,
again.
"I just don't care anymore."
And every statement that escapes your mouth is so far beyond me,
I cannot even begin to grasp
just where it is you are coming from.
I am here thinking back to every moment we ever shared,
where I lied naked in your bed,
drenched in vulnerability,
and tried with all I had to express to you the extent to which I cared.
How someone can so easily blatantly disregard every instance of such intimacy I cannot comprehend.
And for some reason, I still wish you nothing but happiness and success,
in all your life's endeavors,
especially romantically.
My vulnerability comes as that of water from a faucet.
I cannot deny the devastating droughts I've put companions through,
nor can I deny the massive floods.
There is no certainty,
no measure,
no average
of how much of myself I may give.
The drought undoubtedly got to you, because
you took a hammer to my clogged up,
****** up
faucet,
and pounded relentlessly seeking everything right then and there.
I don't see how one could have anticipated anything less than the broken,
spewing mess you created.
Now all that's past, without a moment of regret,
but darling, the damage still lingers.
I'm sitting here broken, a leaky faucet,
that can turn neither fully on or off,
waiting,
ever so impatiently,
for some kind plummer to appear with a wrench.
Now, don't be discouraged, as for now I am okay.
I've found a fellow to appreciate this mess for exactly what it is,
I've been given time,
affection,
void of obligation.
A fellow who cherishes every drop of vulnerability,
every drip,
drop
.
drip
.
drop
.
.