darthsneebette
He's giving me strength.
Pulling me through. Holding me close. Supporting me.
He's giving me strength.
He knows what to do to pull me through everything, how to make me the definition of more than ok with just one word.
He's giving me strength.
He knows how to hold me in that way to make the world right once more.
He's giving me strength.
He's on a mission to hurt me.
He's purposefully hurting me. Purposefully holding her hand, touching her, kissing her in front of me when he knows it's tearing me up inside. He's doing it deliberately because it's a way for him to feel good about himself, to boost his ego and make him feel invincible, infalliable, the epitome of arrogance.
He's on a mission to hurt me.
And it's working.
I trusted him.
I trusted him in every shape, form and way. Implicitly. Explicitly. It doesn't matter. I trusted him in every way thinkable, every way possible. Gave him every piece of him, gave it all to him because I thought the parts of me would be safer with him rather than in my own clumsy hands.
I trusted him, and he broke me.
He broke me into tiny pieces that will never be repaired.
He's breaking me down from one whole piece into lots of little pieces, myriads of me that don't make any sense. They're like pieces of a puzzle that will never slot together, will never fit together because they're shattered, broken, wrecked - just like he's shattered and broken and wrecked me.
I'll never be whole again beacuse he's broken me.
I got my red heels on, and I'm going to impress. I don't care that he said no. I don't care that he turned me down, that he says he sees me as just a little sister and the idea of screwing me just doesn't sit right with him. I don't care about any of that, any of what he said.
I got my red heels on, and I'm going to impress.
I like to dance.
I like to dance with him.
I like decided one day to dance with him on a whim.
I decided I liked it.
I like to dance.
I like to dance with him.
Summer reminds me of the beach, of clear crystal water and pure white sands and that cool ocean breeze brushing against my face.
Summer reminds me of hot sticky nights in nothing but short-shorts and a tee, trying desperately to get to sleep in temperatures of over twentry degrees.
Summer reminds me of you and the taste of berry juice on your lips and sand in your hair and that beautiful smile on your face.
I'm standing in the wake of destruction he left behind, the broken hearts and the shattered lives and the broken limbs. I don'tknow how any of it will ever be put back together - nothing's strong enough, not super-glue, nnot some miraculous form of adhesive.
It's forever broken.
There are blotches all over my skin, purple and black and blue and every other colour in betweet.
They're new. Fresh. Marks that weren't there yesterday, but replace the yellowing ones that remain from the day before that, and the day before that.
They're blotches, marks on my skin that will never fade because they make me his.
They make me his.
He's ragged and rough and everything I shouldn't want. Scarred and burnt and there's something about his smile, something about it that's verging on bad but stays on the side of good so I can't really decide whether he's good for me or not.
He's torn around the edges, ragged and rough.
What I shouldn't want.
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