That twin size bed in a room the size of a closet where we shared new adventures
became nothing more than a place where I lost all respect for you
and myself.
I hit the wall hard with my fist seven times before the tears I cried
led me to the garbage can across the room,
where I sat praying I could vomit
up the hate I felt inside.
Instead I sat with the trash between my legs,
like a drunk after too many drinks, I
gave you too many chances by laying in bed with you again.
My face had never felt so wet.
My heart had never raced so much,
my stomach never ached so much,
it was then I knew that we were dead.
My tear drops were rain drops in the trash between my legs,
a storm breaking through the ceiling would be my only competition.
But the thunder and lightning of my heart beating and fists pounding
were louder and harder and caused more damage than any storm ever could.
But you sat in our twin size bed watching me as I vomit nothing,
and cry for something,
I had once, for months,
given my everything.