I have been vacated, sign around my neck. Love lives here, but she is broken and worn down. Looking like a cheap hooker in a bad wig and busted heels. Hoping against all reality, that one day she will be saved. Resurrected.
How does one dress up their broken love? Is there rehab for this? Or do you give up, take her out back and shoot her. Bury her corpse in the bottom of your heart.
I am tired. Too tired to dig a grave, too tired to even raise my arm to shoot. So we sit here in this squalid motel room that used to be a heart and stare at each other. What if there is no her, what if that slinky pose of kicked back on the grimy bed, propped up by her elbows, legs crossed at the ankles is me? Am I just staring in the mirror? How did I let this happen? Looking at my feet I see the broken heels, the frayed straps. I kick them off and pull off all the clothes. I pile everything in the middle of that awful bed and set it on fire. Yank the wig off my head and toss it into the flame.
I burn my heart clear of this debris. I will save me. I will save me.