We Met That One Fateful Day.

We met that one fateful day in the middle of summer.
And thus began the roller-coaster of emotions, that would eventually take me to hell.
You promised me it wouldn’t hurt.
You said you weren’t capable of hurting me.
But it hurt.
It hurt. It hurt. It hurt.

We became so close so fast that it worried me.
Because I knew, that if you get too close to fire, you get burned.
And I got burned bad.
Second degree burns making their way from my face to my feet.
The worst of them, my heart. Burnt to cinder.
You never apologized. Not once.
But I still forgave you.
Again and again and again.

I confront you about it, mustering up the little courage I have and spilling out my problems.
You’re such a good manipulator that after a while, I become convinced that it indeed was all my fault.
And I forgive you again.
You promised me it wouldn’t hurt.
But you lied.
You lied. You lied. You lied.

Your betrayal stings sharper than an injection.
And I’m terrified of needles.
Your nonchalant attitude about it hurts more than I would’ve believed is possible.
And I’ve been through my fair share of pain.
I have. I have. I have.

It’s constantly on my mind and I just can’t seem to be able to let it all go.
Detach myself, cut the strings and walk away.
But I can’t.
Because the truth of the matter is that I would take a thousand needles for you.
I would. I would. I would.


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