Torn

The problems associated with this pen are much the same as the problems with my boyfriend. Too tall, too thin, black, hard to hold onto and, as soon as the sign of commitment comes along, it runs out. Leaves me in the lurch with nothing to lean on.

So as soon as I can, I get my own back. Not that it was a planned opportunity.

So what do I do now? I'm finding myself torn. Torn between two people. Torn between two guys who I feel strongly for. Torn between myself and my conscience. Torn between my thoughts and my feelings. Torn between me. Torn between two friends.

The difference, or maybe the sheer idiocy of the situation, is that neither of these two people feel for me. They themselves are torn. One, towards Europe. The other, towards another street.

In front of me is a ring. To the right, my old pen. To the left, an empty bottle. It seems that wherever I look, there is an empty promise.

Like a crumpled can kicked across a lonely highway, I have no inside appeal, nor a direction in which to fly. Each and every day I see the road I need to take, the map I want to travel.

But noone is there to offer me the ride.