We are both middling.
I’m half full and you are half empty,
you see the world through much different eyes.
I throw you a life vest; your SOS is quiet, but deliberate,
a whisper in the void.

I think maybe, if I pour my half full into your half empty
then you will be whole; happy
but then I become withered, no longer viable,
a flower attacked by a greedy child’s hand.
Plucked from obscurity but still,
you noticed me.

I love clichés.
they are over-used and often untrue,
but I am obsessed with the idea of perfection;
no diamond in the rough nor happily ever after
could satisfy this parched mouth of mine.

I will strap you in,
detangle your twisted mind,
lace you up in a corset of calmness,
convince you that since this bound exterior is perfect,
the inside must be too.

I was never one to waste,
but would gladly waste away with you
for all of my days;
gently sipping from the rim,
the days dribbling by as wet sunshine pours past the horizon
moment by beautiful moment.

but it’s hard to do all the giving
and receive nothing at all.

I repainted the living room wall.
I guess I just needed a change;
not wanting to smear over you,
just to rearrange.

and it’s always me,
giving up my extra hand.
I’d sever it completely if need be
so I second-guess my anxiety,
take my half-full glass,
and drink up.