Falling apart and falling for you
have, to me, never been more similar or more hated.
God forbid you make this bearable for anyone else but yourself—
--so I warn you now. Be careful. Play with fire and you get burned,
a witch hunt, I think, and I’ll make sure that I’m the one who
lights the match to light the pyre, if you put me through this again
because my resolve is no longer the consistency of water.
I won’t pretend to know you love me, or know you care, because I
most certainly do not. I don’t know anything about you anymore
except the disaster you left when you left and your personal brand of disgust
for cleaning up your own mess. I’m not a girl anymore. I won’t be taken in
by you, by things you do, or by the way you look at me in the light of the moon.
There are no second chances here, just last tries—and this is yours. This is not
a game, I am not a prize, and this situation is far too dangerous for you to think otherwise.
However, you are arrogant, and proud, and cruel, and fool enough to dismiss this warning
for scorn from the very woman you burned. After all, hell hath no fury and the fire there
burns, and burns, and burns. But you refuse to know that. Know that I swear I will rip your beating
black artery out of your chest if you leave this time.
There are no second chances here, just last tries.
...So this is super old. Like, at least three years.