Things that rust

A woman with many heart breaks has fooled
and been fooled. I have done both, vigorously.

I've played the care taker and the patient, both
of which landed me face first into a tidal wave,
whose salt decided to rust every inch of my
plated skin.

I smell of metal instead of perfume, I look
ancient instead of youthful, and I can't seem
to find anyone who believes in restoring the
old instead of searching for new!

I am the old paint can that sits in a cob-webbed
corner of someone's garage.

I am the road sign whose soul the rain so
gruesomely penetrates.

I am the nail that has been stuck between
rotted wooden fences.

Anything that's rusted, I am.

Simply because I've forgotten how
to take care of myself.

I've forgotten which type of people,
circumstances, places, can destroy me.

Do not try and tell me I will be set free.
Do not tell me I will be born again.
Do not tell me someone will love me.

Let's be honest, we throw away things that rust.