When it first happened, when I first felt the blade puncture my heart, a part of me felt relieved to know the extent of your betrayal.
Long before I held my heart in my hands, I was already grieving what could have been.
I thought I had removed myself from that experience, but I was sadly mistaken. It lingered like the scent of a summer day, heavy with fresh citrus, a smell that comes back within a year.
I knew it was fleeting. I knew you were never meant to stay for long.
It wasnβt the lustful eyes that hurt the most. It was the insane act of betrayal: the way you described me, how you truly perceived me. The simple fact that I was a secret, hidden away like a coat in a closet, only meant to come out in a winter night.
I kept my distance. While I filled notebooks with poems and surrendered to habits that would later become soothing sounds to drown out the loud ones, you were somewhere else laughing, thriving, enjoying moments of solitude with the added companionship just enough to keep you entertained and away from the embers that remained.
I became enraged by the thought that you were the happiest you had ever been. Even more so when you managed to bloom like a tulip just as things were beginning to look good for me.
And then, just as quickly, like a tulip, you wilted and vanished again.
Eventually, I moved on. The thoughts diminished. The voice that once guided my hand toward the glass was drowned out by genuine connection.
Yet somehow it happened again.
I found myself trapped in the same cycle while you insisted upon rhymes of what we shared. Why must you make a joke out of me?
It showed how you never really understood the pain. In songs in conversation, you always fail to mention the true betrayal I had stumbled upon that night. Those words.
They were exchanged so casually through an encoded mind that even it seemed unwilling to accept them. It could not believe the conclusions you drew, the dilemmas you crafted for yourself.
