I would once become 
angry 
so angry
fits of rage
manic phone calls
hours upon hours
of making myself
clinically insane
I would 
show up drunk
on a doorstep
at 4 a.m.
screaming
crying
tiny mascara rivers
painting my cheeks
black
snot bubbles
above a snarl
no sense
only scorn

I could feel
my heart
being
wrung
twisted and contorted
burning in agony
from its mangled
state
A particular kind of torment
one never forgets
or hopes to endure
again

and I recall
the panicked
and confused stares
eyes darting 
left right
making sure
the neighbors weren't witness
to my 
psychotic scene

I only wanted
answers

Why wasn't I worth the effort?
What made me 
Less Than?
Why was I bending like the reed
and there they stood,
unyielding oaks?

Well.

Years have come and gone
ticks on a metronome
keeping time
for no one listening
except myself

I'm older 
so very
Much.

I no longer
pitch fits
dramatic displays
are beneath me
and more importantly
take up far too much energy
of which I have 
less and less

One thing...
the years have done nothing
to diminish the corrosiveness
of lost love's affliction
The ache of my heart's suffering
isn't reduced
No
It all still hurts the same
It is only
more familiar
An unwelcome 
unavoidable
guest 
I am forced to entertain
every so often

The difference now
is
I am much more aware
of my worth
despite the accompanying
wretched 
emotional injury
and no amount of
tears
wails
impassioned pleas
deranged theatrics
and/or
any and all

will make a dent 
in someone else's 
minimal perception
of my value

It doesn't lead me
to madness
not anymore
I am only burdened by sorrow
for what the other person 
lost
failed to grasp
refused to see

what could have been

so.

I mend what has been
fragmented
Allow myself the solitude
to heal
And in the quietude
of another long night
the metronome
ticks
ticks
ticks