I loved you, and it is quite funny that a small part of me still does. The part that first attracted to you in the first place, like stone cold metal helpless against a magnet, drawing me closer and closer.
The part that looked past your flaws, mere scratches on a masterpiece, or so I thought.
In reality, it's your flaws that dominate you, your flaws that broke my spirit like you broke my heart.
You were like my brand of heroin, intoxicated from the first touch, and you knew I'd come back for more, craving the high, savouring the recieval, embracing the rot you spread, fully aware it was slowly killing me.
Was it all a facade?
The sweetness that occasionally shone through the arrogance, similar to weak rays of the warm sunshine peeking through cloudy curtains? The intense look in your eyes, as they met mine as if you were a blind man seeing the sun for the first time?
It must have been, because now the clouds hang permanently, the rays of sunshine a rare sight.
I loathe myself for the fact that if you were to die come sunrise, I would be sure to follow.
Not because I can't live on this earth without your existence, but rather that a small part of me would lay the blame on myself, torturing myself for it.
But you? You begged me to die, to take my own life.
You told me countless times to do so, that it was your hearts desire.
Which makes it hard to believe I ever was.
