I pour every day, a measured amount, enough to keep it full.
Full enough for me, full enough for them.
A symbiosis that makes me feel wanted and complete.
And all I want is the cup to be filled.
And then, again and again, someone takes the cup and shatters it.
They look at me and tell me I'm not worth it.
I'm ugly, broken, ruined, something to hide away in shame.
And all I want is the cup to be filled.
I get out another one, smaller, and begin pouring anew.
Fewer friends surround me, but I still try my best.
The silence means I hear my thoughts more, screaming.
And all I want is the cup to be filled.
Shattered, denied, rejected. They don't even give me a reason why.
Just that I'm no longer wanted, embarrassed that I exist.
I stand there, my circle, my cup growing ever smaller.
I have to pour but the cup holds less and less, overflowing.
Too small a cup and I stand there shaking, the pot boiling in my hand.
Nowhere else to go, I pour it on myself, screaming.
It burns like it always did, in the past and now, I guess the future.
Screaming as I shower myself under it, scalding my soul away.
I have to pour every day, I can't help or contain it.
I have too much and every day another cup shatters or is taken away.
The remaining cup feels so tiny, filled, overflowing, I still have to pour.
Raising it over my head, I dump the rest and pray no one hears me.
All I want is the cup to be filled.
Why can't I have that?
Why do I have to burn?
Why?