you molded me, soft, in
your hands- a wheel at
Pottery Barn- and I couldn't
say "no" (impossible, at that
point, since I was so sure the
sun set in your palms and the
moon only rose upon your
permission) so I let you turn me
into someone new, someone I
thought you could love. your
words tore open my chest and
mixed with my veins. they
whispered "you are beautiful, you
are lovely, you are everything" and
I soaked it up until you had nothing
to give but apathetic shrugs and
a mind that was always somewhere
else. I expected too much of you,
but how could I not when you
had promised me every star in the
sky on its own individual string?

I have been searching for
pieces of you in other
people's hands and
coming up empty
(emptier than I
was before.)
When will
this end?