You push, push, push.
But the thing is, I’m not a broom.
You cannot use me to sweep up the shards of glass you scattered onto the floor yesterday.
And already I am regretting my decision to do this. To try again. To be here, waiting. Yet again for the you I have always believed in. But the thing is, all you’re giving me is the pressure, is the regret; you’re only making me believe that there are not statutes of limitations on heartbreak.
That a beating heart can break and heal, break and heal, and break again. That sorrow is cyclical. That your name is becoming synonymous with sadness in the dictionary of my life.
Don’t you know “darling”, that the good Lord didn’t make a girl like me to be the broom of a boy like you?
He didn’t make me to sweep your floors.
And I know it now, even if you don’t yet.
But you will.
-Jessi Sanders 2012