My mistake was trusting you.
And you.
And you.
And you.
And you.
You ruined me, made me believe in something that could never exist.
You made me like this.
But it's also my own fault, I guess.
My own.
My own that made me take fire hot showers to get the feeling off me.
My own that made me take fire to my skin.
My own that made me hide the truth, hide everything.
My own.
But it's your fault for saying "I love you."
My own for believing it was love.
This isn't even for you, maybe it's for another.
Because it's my own fault for staying, hoping.
My coping mechanisms down to nothing, working myself to let people in.
But you gave me a reason not to.
You made me feel bad about my curiosity.
You made me feel bad about my past.
You made me feel bad for wanting to die, while you spoke with the same tongue.
My eyelids droop too low, and my soul with it.
I'm nothing more than what they've made me to be.
But I can only hope I find myself.
Find it, keep it locked on a shelf.
Sew it back to me like Peter Pan and his shadow.
