“YOU WON,” I screamed. The words sliced the inside of my throat as they rushed from my chest, the blood spilt on the table before I could even notice. I had been trying all this time trying to cover the gunshots with band-aids.
And he picked the scabs with fingernails because he knew he held the power. Kissing bruises into my neck and burning his fingerprints onto my collarbones. He was the most dangerous vandal, breaking me into a function only he could benefit from. And I would have paid no mind, for I thought that I was always meant to be his, but you see, he never meant to return. Only to conquer and collect, placed photograph upon many on his bookshelf.
The funny thing is: he was never competing. He never wanted to win because he never wanted to actually have me, just borrow. And he has yet to realize that it is not the anger that is misplaced, but rather the responsibility.
I should have never let myself get that close to the flame.