none if it was supposed to happen, no wine spilling from whosever glass heart would hold it. mine shattered, and it poured profusely, condescension and hatred, in good measure.
the lies were supposed to rest on an old, dusty shelf with books you no longer read, forlorn, while warmer things filled your heart. only now that it's gone, do you believe yourself the victim, and pretend to care. from what remains, no love of any kind will ever echo for you again.
I hope your hot priest comes along and breaks your heart in the worst ways.