to pull the rug from under one's feet
would not be an apt description:
you lured me to your breast with the promise of
comfort, of support, a shoulder to stand on.

you ripped from my eyes
my bookworm blinders: and when I staggered in the
excruciating light, your voice called me
back into the shade. I felt comforted.

you planted at my feet
a cashmere carpet of sympathies, bade me lay
for a while under dappled sunlight while a
storm raged around us. I felt supported.

and with an offering of crystal water
you promised to be here for me. I lapped
up everything with a sure sense of certainty.
I knew I had a shoulder to stand on.

and then the storm closed in,
whipping up branches in my hair and my face -
I looked for your balance, but you'd crept
back into your foxhole, closed your doors to me.

the promise you'd granted me broke quickly
when it was needed the most,
under the weight of the wind. It left me
drifting in the aftermath of the open, barren sea.

sharks swimming all around me.