I am liquid soap, almost emptied by your use. There is so little of me left and yet my shell is still the same. The years have not left any visible dents; the plastic bottle is still intact. Even when I fell and my guts drizzled over the bathroom floor, my bottle had only a scratch.
But half of me was gone.
You filled me with water then: empty promises that we could last, but now I bleed faster. And as you hit me down on your hand, squeezing my throat and my stomach, trying to reach the last of me,
what then will be left of me but an empty shell?