dragged and washed with eager hands

broken hearts are the stuff of poets and artists, so perhaps i should thank him for this. perhaps the anger can be channeled into something else; maybe there is a city that needs to be burned to the ground.

i have been here before, in this desolate alleyway where ache and regret meet. they hold close together against the side of the wall, each taking turns lifting the other's skirt. and i feel it all, right on the tip of my tongue and creeping up to the surface of every inch of my skin. i want to spew out everything, turn it into molten lava that destroys and changes all that it touches. i want to burn all this pain away.

but then i have to pull myself back and remember that i was willing to be wrong. it was me who took the risk to love, and in reality it is me who allowed myself to be lied to and hurt. so, i take responsibility for it, hold it in my hand and throw it all into the flames.