Pain

Pain, this is just and only about pain.

I woke up - a hundred times and today and felt, knew, deep within me, pain. 
Pain you have done to me; I have done to myself I dutifully, responsibly, adultly quip in snappy properness... you did it to me though, really. This pain is mine and I want to share it with you.

Its all been about you, always. Take, don't give, take.

And mine was free to give, small things that I watched go. Time, freedom, sex, joy, fulfilment.
I thought I was sharing them but no. Things with love, spread sometimes to thinly but I shared all that I had.

You don't share, you take what you want, cutting my heart, my love, my memories, my family, my home, all that I ever had, cut down through with a knife - ours, cut in two becomes two dead halves of a bleeding heart, blue.

Your future, you see it as you kick off the things you see as shit; me, our home, our children, the time, the sharing (haha). If you could you'd bin me but perhaps you can do a deal and leave me out in the rain, without my pot of course, for some sad fuck to take away - take away a bit of that stuff that might, might, leave a mark.

That stuff, the pain I want you to feel - that love as it turns circle, scimitar, becoming pain and hate.