My denial
Your rejection

My tears
Your smile

My second-degree burns
Your beauty spots

My adoration
Your indifference

My disappointment
Your natural progression

My self-fulfilling prophecy
Your changing mind

It's true what they say;
hope dies last.

Long after your supposéd feelings for me have perished I lie awake in my cold bedroom struggling to catch my breath.

A weakened ribcage cannot contain this masochistic heart that would sooner see itself stop beating than allow yours to so much as falter in its rhythm.

We wanted so much.