Poetry / Writing on the Kitchen Floor

There were words and voices speaking.
Then an argument of pride;
Such foolish vices.
Yes, I remember what you said way back when.
I recall those words before our childish spat
And they carried a heavy weight that I was prepared to take.
I meant them full and true and nothing you can think would make them mean nothing to you.
You probably want me to miss you and not need you
So I do nothing while I sit on the kitchen floor in tears from the day you left.
I no longer see the world as her because you are a child
I have given up what was never mine;
Stolen from me way back when in time.
I say those words again because I carry honesty in them.
No vanity or insanity; but truth.
And the thoughts after our proud fight that didn’t see this as a first night.
I am a musician and call for nothing more.
I no what I am living my life for and care for nothing else in this world.
I am a musician and no longer the girl that fell on the floor, madly in love.
I am her no more; I wasn’t her when I arose from the floor.
I am me and you should know that I know the difference in all things plain to see.
So don’t worry:
I am not waiting for you, him, her, them, that…
I wait no longer for anything.
I have my drug, my vice.
I’ll fill my glass with vodka and ice and continue my writing on the kitchen floor.
For it is me that I am writing for.