It was a play written by you, directed by me.

The invalidation, mockery, lack of appreciation and respect – it was all in my heart’s reflection. It hurt because I stabbed myself. I betrayed myself. I stayed when I should have left. I listened when I should have ignored you. I waited when everyone had gone home and turned off all lights thinking you’d come back. My memories were fabricated, my hope vain. I shunned my reflection in the mirror because it’d return to me broken, shattered to smithereens. I became a vacant shell, like a dirty window in a dilapidated house. Were you a squatter? Who is the owner? I can’t recall ever owning my own. I was just trying to hide my self-hate by inviting your degradation.I tried to bury my pain in the grave you dug for me. But alas, the grave became my home, and you went on with your journey.

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