This is an angry letter to you when you tore down my walls and broke into my castle, wrecking my doors and breaking down my fortifications, pushing yourself into me, forcing your big body through my small frames, bursting my boxed up feelings. You lied to me saying you loved me, saying you wanted me, saying you want me to be with you, saying I was your lover.
You burnt my brilliant cornucopia, my fields of green and gold with your flaming torches, so carelessly flung onto the lush grass. The grass withered beneath your step and crumpled, into the shapeless form they were left in.
You smashed my glass onto the cold, hard ground. Maybe you did what you had to do, maybe you didn’t like the glass mug I did, maybe you didn’t feel that it mattered to me.
You tossed me into the garbage bin like trash, like a used piece of paper, paper plane lines and marks etched on my skin, wrinkled at the edges and burnt as crisp. You threw me into the bin like the basketball scored.
No this is not a piece of literature, this is not a piece of art. In fact, this is a piece of crap that denotes how much I have given to you, and how much I regret it.
I want it all back, back, back. To me.