Look At The Mess You Made

Sparkling on the floor

in dozens of pieces

are the feelings I used to carry for you.

A flower vase shattered,

water held together by nothing,

flower petals still full of color

scattered around the scene.

If I could freeze the moment,

it would look like a strategized photographic muse,

but not even I saw it coming.

Look at the mess you made,

kissing in dark rooms

and then opening your mouth

to someone else the next morning.

You’re double-dipping

and now we’re comparing notes,

investigating your illicit affairs,

and uncovering secrets.

Look at the mess you made,

now she can’t contain her vengeance,

and her demons are hunting you down.

Punishing you with rumors,

whispers, warnings,

any kind of sign that’ll turn everyone’s backs towards you.

Holding the bouquet with both virgin hands,

I squeeze tightly,

anticipating my turn.

I didn’t ask for this,

but my lips are sealed tight,

and I am somehow conned into cleaning it all up.

Look at the mess you made,

driving your daydreams home after a drunk night out,

when you know they’re not yours to take.

Breaking connections

that were just beginning to form,

and then wondering

why they haven’t grown.

You hate being the talk of the town

when you were the one who

threw your business into the streets,

opening windows and doors for all eyes to see.

Dragged out into the open,

I clutch the dead flowers,

desperately grasping on to the knowledge that

I wasn’t the one who killed them.