Clogged

We were baptized
in the brackish bathwater
of our love,
where the residue
of truth and lies
line the edges
like soap scum and dead skin,
where oily hate now floats,
where pieces of you
and pieces of me
drown in the stagnant tub
of eternity,
where your epsom tears
collect like rainwater
in potholes,
forming tiny ripples
on the surface
as they splash down
one by one by one
like dew kissed flowers
ripped apart,
petals plucked and scattered
into the wind.

He loves me;
I love him not.
He loved me;
my love was rot.