I rode the merry-go round,
I've been through the revolving door,
but I always seem to go back
to where I was before.
Times of endless word rhymes
still echo in my head
as I cry into one of the handfuls of teddy bear toys
you've given me.
Then I realize
they're just like me,
        taking                up              space,
not really having any meaning;

sort of like that retro painting in my room we hung up to try and hide
the hole I punched in the wall in the life we painted together.
I forced my knuckles through the plaster until I knew
the blood stains in the white carpet would never come out.
We've rode the merry-go round,
we've spent time in the revolving door,
but I don't think my heart can take
going back to where we were before.