Recovery

Use Me, Reuse Me

I don't know much about love. I think I too closely resemble those grocery bags labeled, "Use me, reuse me," in big bold letters because it seems like I'm endlessly pouring every drop of myself into people who ask for all of me and later decide they want someone who's full. It's okay to be empty as long as you don't expect anyone to fill you up. I was scooped out piece by piece, like a jack-o-lantern or an abandoned closet, but I would still wake up every morning because I knew there must be someone, somewhere with a candle or a sweater set that needed storing. And then you brushed in like the first few drops of rain and drowned me like a tsunami. I know I'm a little worn out. I know I'm a little messy. I know you could be with someone with softer lips and warmer skin, but I know you kiss every inch of me anyway. I know that when my body seems too small to hold everything I feel, you pull me back together like the zipper on the back of my black dress I can never seem to reach. I know you held me tighter when I told you I'd made a home inside you, right where your collarbone cradles the side on my head and I know when I was shaking in my sleep you tucked the blankets tighter around me. I know you've engulfed me like a forest fire and I know if your kisses left scars I'd be more cracked than my mom's teacup I dropped two years ago. I know I'm fragile and I know you could put me back together. I know you keep me breathing and I know I cry every time you're leaving. I know every time I feel like a bitter mug of coffee spilled all over this morning's newspaper, you will come fill me back up like a steaming cup of tea. I don't know much about love, but I do know I can't remember loving anything else except you. So come, fill me up, blow me out, drink me down; use me, reuse me - I know I'm not good at saying things out loud, so here is everything I know.