I'm on the ground, broken and dirty.

I know that they all know that I've been used,

so why are they acting like they don't?

Am I not worth the emotions that I'd give to anyone of them,

if they were throw on the floor like I was?

The outrage I would've felt towards the person who had shattered them,

and the towards the ones who had sat and watched would've been unexplainable,

unstomachable,

but why are they able to swallow?

I always think of this,

about the people I love that seem to think of me as inanimate.

Just something to drink from,

wash and put back.

Maybe we're different?

Cause if they were broken and scattered I would've been broken and scattered too,

but it seems like they're left without a chip.

I know I shouldn't bring it up to them because I can't force a heart to love,

but when it's people you'd give your life for you,

you can't help but hope they'd do the same.

Every time I try to make them realize, I'm broken and it's for them I'm still holding water,

they quench their thirst,

and pay no mind to my cracks and filth.

Why is that?

Because I have so many cracks and I'm so broken that they've given up on fixing me?

Am I not worth fixing?

Or even empathy or guilt?

Guilt for still talking to the person who broke me?

They now still fill me with water and pretend, that I'm still able to hold it,

and when water pours from my cracks, they place me down and expect me to fix myself.

Well looks like I'll have to stay broken,

until hopefully one day I'm placed by the window sill where the sun heats me up,

and I'm whole again.