Vase

I hate that vase.
How it sits in the corner
Unfilled.
Not even water takes it's airy space.
That vase hates me
By how it complains of feeling "empty"
And noticing that I am, too.
How not a petal sits at the bottom.
Not even a broken heart
Or a bloodstain.

That vase
That I loathe
Is empty

Because there wasn't a heart to be broken
Or a flower to be placed
Or water to be poured
In the first place.