when you
love
and you know that
loving is as useless as
spoiled bread
you love more
and more and hope
that maybe, just maybe
there's a chance.
but usually there isn't.
and
then you're left with your
spoiled heart
rotten.
those pieces of me,
swirling
chunks of vomit
on the side of the street
on this empty heart,
empty bottle of wine
in someone's trash
that could have
been used for more honest poetry
in a night where there's only
one spoiled
rotten
thought of her in a
paper dress
smiling
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