Trickle

Fine, fine, fine. I sang that song for nineteen years, took pride in the fact that I didn't need help from anyone. I managed to pick myself up on my own, or so I thought. Turns out I had an anchor that scooped me up, a fluke under each arm that dug deep holes into my skin when I wasn't looking. Now I'm pouring out of those holes, all jagged edges and uneven streams of me, right onto the floor. Turns out you were that anchor.