Garbage

Shattered glass. The debris of a house of memories. Ashes. These are the things that surround me.

Because you threw me in the

Garbage.

The glass cuts deep, deeper than ever before. I’m wounded, and I can’t seem to heal. I’m sad, hurt, angry, jealous, insecure, and more

Because you threw me in the

Garbage.

This house of memories has become a fallen house of cards,

one that will likely never be put back together.

Because you threw me in the

Garbage.

Your ghost haunts me wherever I go, wherever I look, whatever I think of.

I want to be free, to stop hurting so much, but it’s so hard.

They say you can’t live life in the past.

But I keep wanting to.

The past, our past, seems so much better than this present.

The present is painful. It’s a lonely place, one that’s darker than anywhere I’ve been in a very long time.

You’ve made it clear that I need to move on and I know that I need to. I want to.

But I keep clinging to the past, because that’s easier than facing the present.

But it’s becoming easier now that I’ve seen that you threw me in the

Garbage.

I’m floating in a sea of ashes. I can see that everything that we had didn’t mean a thing to you because

you reduced it to ashes. Your actions were metaphorical. I acted in a more literal sense.

Combined, these actions have produced this endless expanse of ashes.

Because you threw me in the

Garbage.

You abandoned ship at the first sign of trouble when we started this new stage of our lives,

Leaving me by myself to sort through the glass, the debris and the ashes.

I couldn’t do it by myself. I begged you again and again to come back.

You even said you would, only to change your mind in a N.Y. minute.

You, like several other people, have yanked me around like a dog on a leash.

And I, always the fool, was so eager to take it. Pain’s better than nothing, right?

Now it’s becoming clear just how much you’ve recently treated me like

Garbage.

Garbage.

That’s all I am to you now, isn’t it?

You don’t care how I feel, that much is clear.

Without any warning, she says “I’m happy with him.”

I say “who the hell is ‘him?’”

And she tells me who “he” is.

And I stop, and I realize

that now, all I am to you is

Garbage.

Everything that we had, all of the memories, all of the trust, forgiveness, it all

means nothing to you. I mean nothing to you.

And now I really see that you’ve thrown me in the garbage.

I quickly realize that I’m not just angry at her. I realize that I’m mad at myself.

I’m jealous. Because I don’t have hope that I’ll find someone else. Who would be interested in insecure, extremely flawed me?

And, in my mind, that answer is always “no one.”

Because I view myself as

Garbage.