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Hurts like a bullet.

It feels like being shot in the face.
Like being cut up in pieces.
Like being slaughtered.
Because it's not enough to hurt.

It will kill.
Not enough to sting, it needs to burn.
Not enough to keep close, not far enough to let go tho.

It hurts.
Hurts much more than a papercut, and it's harder to cure than any burnt part of my body.

It hurts because it's a fire that never truly was extinguished, the only thing that kept me from it was my own protection.

Which is now damaged, because even with time it will keep burning.

It will continue to hurt.

Because not being loved, hurts.

Contempt will always exist along with hatred, and that's a simple fact.

I used to have actual hope. Really. But now, I'm pale in comparison to my true colorful self.

My world was slowly turned into a black and white model that isn't nearly enough.

And by far that's frustrating.

You made me like this.

And then...what am I?