Throwaway

I don't like feeling like a throwaway. And that's what I feel like. Like that kid that got pushed to the side when something better came along. Out of sight, out of mind. And I sit here and check the time like some lunatic, thinking, it's not too late to call me, it's not too late, still not too late, kind of late, almost too late, very late, too late, he's not going to call. And I'm constantly reminding myself that it never even occurred to him to call. It's not like he was going to and then got busy and forgot. There's no part of him thinking, I wonder what she's doing, I wonder what she's up to, I wonder how her day has been, I think I'd like to hear her voice.

So I feel like a throwaway. Like one of those forlorn mongrels at the pound that looks through the chain link fence thinking, I know the last guy thought I was awful, but please please please take me home with you. I don't like it in here. It smells funny. But no one will let me out. I'm stuck here until they send me to the gas chamber. Which is inevitable, given that I'm not one of the adorable puppies. I'm an old dog with a limp and I eat my body weight every day. They thought it was kind of funny at first, but not so much anymore. Now I'm just bothersome. Which is how I got here in the first place.