Stained

You always told me you were poisonous

that in the end,

you would end up with inky blood on your hands and dripping from your name.

I never believed you.

Not for a moment.

You were mortified by the thought of your ink staining my delicate skin, my pages.

You wanted anything but to hurt me.

I don’t understand how someone can go from willing to sacrifice their own breath for someone to not giving them a second glance so quickly.

 

In the end,

you did stain me.

You stained me quite permanently, actually.

I don’t think you care, though.

That’s what changed.

You went from fearing ever hurting me

fearing ever causing a tear to fall from my eyes

to

not being bothered by my tear drenched pillows and my bloodshot eyes.

 

I know you do care in some way,

but you don’t care the same you did once before

not in the way I still care about your wellbeing

not in the way I will always care for you.

 

Now,

you will always have a part of me

a pure, beautiful part that I don’t think you’ll ever return.

You were the first person I fully, wholeheartedly loved

and now I am left with a hole in my chest and cracked ribs from where you reached in and grabbed that piece.

The area around the wound’s entrance is now stained with your name and all of the loving things you said.

Were they all lies?

Was it all a lie?

I like to think it was real to you at some point but I know eventually,

it became nothing more than…

well,

nothing.

 

You were right.

In the end, you would damage and stain me beyond repair.

I should have listened.

 

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