A poem from another blog I read

Teatime
By Emma McElhaney



I know how it feels

to spill the teapot of your love.

it splashes out, unintentionally,

and you hope and beg and wish and plead with everything you have

that the person its contents are meant for

will come along and see the mess you’ve made.

you want him to mop up all that sloppy love, every last drop,

and drink you down until you’re dry.

you want him to drown in it.

but sighs and hopes never seem to be sufficient.

so there you are.

just some sad broken china,

no longer perfect, no longer sought after, no longer the object of his admiration.

you lie there for a while; lifeless, empty, damaged to the point of unrecognizable,

with your warm heart and your bleeding soul and all your elegant innards ripped out, pooling around you,

temperature dropping hurriedly, without remorse.

it hurts.

it hurts so terribly bad to be broken.

but it hurts a great deal worse to be seen in such a sorry state,

only to be left behind by the one lover capable of repairing all your broken pieces.