i cried, i really did.

you enjoyed having a pretty little doll follow you around, worshipping the very ground you walked on. you did not love my company, you allowed me to stay because i was just another trophy on your shelf of weary souls. another conquest you would soon forget.

i think something in me broke when i realized just how many others you had claimed to love.

you were the only piece of art that i ever bequeathed my soul to instantaneously. you believed i would be a glorious thing once you'd forced me to suffer: those bleeding scars will only enhance her features, you thought. you do not think it is cruel to think of me like that.

i was your canvas, your target for the pain that you traced my scars of love with. you molded me into your sun, someone that you could take the light from. and when i slowly dried out, slowly died out because i could not live on stolen love for my entire life. neither of us could, but you played my game and won it. you took what i had left and left me to seep into the cracks of the cobblestones we used to walk over with our beating hearts under coats.

i never even made it onto your display of broken hearts.

too dead gone by the time you tried to scrape what little remained of me.