I don't really know where to begin,
but I guess I'll start when you left.
Since you've decided that you don't need me anymore,
and since you walked out on me,
I feel alone.
I'm empty inside,
like that cardboard box lying on the floor
in the corner of our room.
Excuse me,
my room.
It used to be filled with all different things
clothes, books, picture frames with
our smiling faces
pressed into the glass.
We unpacked that box together,
made this house ours,
but then you decided it wasn't good enough,
that I wasn't good enough.
You walked out,
tearing it into pieces,
empty floors, walls with cracks from nails
driven in too deep
and yanked out of their places
kind of like me.
And now that box is empty
laying in the corner while
those glass-pressed faces,
protected from the dust, water, flames
lie somewhere around the room
coated in that same dust we wanted to protect them from,
and burning,
and those frames keeping those memories perfect
and making sure they stay crisp and clear
splinter and chip
while empty bottles with drops of liquid inside
line the floors
and tissues pile up everywhere else
and I realized that
no matter how hard I try
or what I do,
there’s
no
getting
   out.
I’m stuck inside a maze,
twisting, turning, reaching desperately
to try and find my exit.
To try and find a way
to forget.
To forget you.
But as soon as I find a path
there’s always another dead end
and as I look upon the ivy-covered gray walls
tears pricking my eyes and visions
of everything we had,
were,
  could’ve been
flashes before me,
I realize for the hundred and first time
there’s no getting over you.