You treat my love like a rag.
Tossed to the side, your hands dried of me.
In the dimly lit corner of your memory,
I waste away. The odor of stagnant air
With mildew is how you remember.
There’s only so much I can absorb
Before my patience runs thin.
You may think you can use me again,
But these delicate fibers have become worn
Distressed to the point of being torn.
Perhaps it’s the thought of discarding someone
That gives that soured look of disgust of yours,
And yet you have the nerve to dispose of those
Wretched feelings and pretend to be ignorant.
Why should you have to sully your hands
With the rubbish from when you didn’t give a damn?
My happiness is wrung dry and yet sopping wet,
Overflowing with sorrow, I hope to borrow
That trait of yours where you toss into the bin
Any sense of accountability and even then,
It is a hopeless endeavor to polish the past
With a ragged love that was never meant to last.