Dear Lover,

You ask me why I’m such a cynic, why I don’t think about our future, why I’m so cold.

Because all love stories end the same, morose way.

I told you from the start I didn’t believe in love, I told you my heart was out of service.

You don’t listen when I say I’ve been burned too many times.

You hate when I talk about my past but ask the same questions again and again, never understanding my answer.

You see a year ago I was so sure about my future, the man I would marry, the children we could have.

Now a wedding ring sounds like a death sentence.

Two years ago I wanted to die because he played twisted games with my heart.

Now I have a sixth sense for evil.

Three years ago I was sure he was the one as he stuck a knife in my back.

Now I have a viscous protector tattooed on my spine.

Four years ago my innocence was taken by a wolf in sheep’s clothing, ravenous and cruel.

Now I am the wolf.

All their faces blur together into one image that I hate.

Heartbreaks heal, but the scars they leave behind are thick, ugly reminders of where you can never let yourself be cut again.

I know all too well what pain feels like, what disappointment and betrayal taste like, on both ends.

The girl I was is dead, and the women I’ve become mourns her, vowing to never be that weak, naive and childish.

I no longer find any truth in caramel drizzled words, I don’t believe pretty eyes and kind hands because I’ve seen how those words turn to lies and those eyes turn to stone and those hands, well, they leave you black and blue.

You tell me this time will be different, that love is not always painful.

But it seems I bring out the worst in all my lovers, the rotten beast inside them always comes out to play.

Understand love, this is why I can’t see our future.

I already see you unraveling like those before you, don’t you see I’ve tried to warn you.

You’ll never get it though, I’m afraid, and you will never get me in white dress with a veil and a bouquet because I know better now than to let my heart be on display.


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