When you went away, I expected it to be
so much more than before, different
when you returned home to me.
You didn't even miss me, that is so bent.

I am a puddle of dejection again.
Why must you treat me like this?
Rejection, it seems, is more of a friend,
always returning to me in the end.

I am a puddle of rejection,
an object of scorn.
You are so indifferent to how
badly my heart is torn.
I am a puddle of dejection,
how my heart aches.
Turn away from me now,
avoid the stricken look on my face.