Glass bottles on the floor,

Stepping in the glass,

As blood seeps from my feet.

I know you see them too,

You do,

We could be so much better.

We weren’t.

I felt so powerless,

You felt it too.

You did, until you pushed that away.

I did too.

Screaming to the sky,

I can’t tell why we fought.

You said,

We cannot be better.

Truly?

I don’t trust in the reason,

You forced this upon us,

As though a knife were to my throat.

We could not be better.

But I’m not so sure.

You never asked,

To bandage my bloodied wounds.

Therefor we could have been better.

Still, you claimed,

We cannot be better.

The question, it seemed, would always remain: cannot, or will not?