She will not remember your love as glorified free will, never ending oceans of purity, rolling meadows of green flowing grass covering her memories in hope and security.  She will not remember your love as vintage lip stick stained romance, framed in uneven Polaroid photos pinned upon her wall.

She will remember your love as religion, in the sense that it was absolute and ever present, but even she couldn't prove it actually existed.
Religion, because every sunday she got down on her knees and lowered her head, worshiping your love, worshiping you.

You were her God. Piecing together her shattered bones, sewing layers of her skin into a work of art, and then tearing them apart day after day in search for perfection.

You built her heart into an everlasting church of fortitude and self confidence, and then left out stain glassed windows so every once in a while you could peak in, just to make sure you were the one being worshiped.

Inside the church you placed preachers and priest to tell tales of loyalty, to make her recite her vows of your love before bed, to comfort and denounce her fears, whenever questions of doubt began to arise.

Finally, you cursed her, falsely called her out for her infidelity, put her upon a wooden stake and set it a blaze.

"Go to Hell" you told her,
and even though this is all a metaphor,
when she wakes up every morning to the sight of shadows and cracks in the walls,
when every step feels like she's walking on endless burning coals,

She actually believes, that in fact she is in hell.