What am I, but a drink spilled?
A stepped-on bouquet after a party.

A shredded letter of a broken love.
A stained long-distance memory.

I was supposed to be a flower,
but I was trampled and neglected
by the one who was to take care of me.

What am I, but a cracked glass,
unfit to hold emotions inside?
Too much for myself,
too much for others.
An annoyance.

What is this?
A supposed poem?
But it’s me trashing words,
or am I trashing myself?