When the calm in my eyes met the fire in yours, I mistook your heat for warmth.
You were an artist and arsonist, creating something beautiful just to destroy it.
The cycle was violent, reminiscent of manipulated shades of red on canvas.
Your words were sharp, softening my tone until I fell into quiet submission.
Your need for control couldn't be satiated, I failed to realize that I handed you the knife.
Blood pooling at my feet, I still felt grateful you chose me.
I opened my mouth but no words came out and as you lit your final match, I realized I was the art.