Waiting

I am an animal with mange. I once thought I had a heart I belonged to, and now I am an unwanted, starved pet on a porch. Was it so awful to have wanted to be loved? Was I so awful that even my face was too despicable to want to see? That my presence could not be bared even once in a fortnight? Let alone my heart or love? See all that I lack, and nothing that I am. Wait for that beautiful and better thing. And let me hide away, the little girl in the closet, so that I do not have to see you give another all that I was never good enough for. I know, for I was told. All the things, left behind, only to remind me of the emptiness in my bed, and the solitude of my heart. Fantasizing of but one kiss that I did not have to request. Or one moment of passion, just to know I was wanted. The one I would have given everything to. The broken dreams of a forgotten heart. This disgusting flesh, I can bare no longer, and let me fall from the iron bridge of the gods to the icy Columbia below, as I had intended many years ago. Let my heart be turned to stone, ice and beautiful, never to be marred again. Never, ever touched again. Trust is now something incompressible. And I pray it remain so. Take me to a nunnery, so that I might find the only one who could possibly love me. The clocks once comforting tick, is now a faint memory, wrapped in old screams, and tears run cold. I am bitter. I lie in the ice blood of my defeat. And yet, still, when he comes calling, I wag my tail, and dress in my finest linens and rouge, to wait the empty and silent night, for the knock that never comes