Swept Under The Rug

I feel challenged in loving you,
annoyed to put you in your place.
The one has an empty glass,
the last sip has turned her sour.

(Pause for her harsh words and bitter actions.)

The other has lost his soft-edges.
The recent years seems to have bottled his smile.

(Pause for the slamming door.)

I admit I've had my share of empty glasses,
and occasionally my soft edges turn into quills,
but this constant sweeping under the rug
has caught up to both of them.