When I said I wanted to feel your touch, I wanted to feel your fingertips along the ridges of my bare back, sliding down as slowly as your gaze fell upon my lips.
Instead, you raised your hands from my hands to my heart, and you gripped it tight. Your strength diminishing the light in my eyes.
You took me when my heart was broken, and you shattered it with the palm of your hand.
I wanted you to fill a part of me that longed for you, a flame that burned, regardless of the sorrow you blew my way; testing the flames endurance, another game to you.
Yet you checked me, I was just a pawn in the game you played, another heart locked in the jar you kept so close, a locker deep in the abyss of your mind.
The flame that once burned went out, but with no credit to your mastermind of emotional manipulation, but my removing myself from the oxygen that you gave to me, by my own power.
I used to question what made me turn the page and begin again, dreaming of your wings, soaring me above the clouds, carrying me, until we met, until we would part.
The wings released me of my chokehold, and I found within me a power that carries me higher than you could have dreamed, and I could have imagined.
You turned the page, but the chapter is done. The cycle will no longer continue. For your chapter is the last in the novel, My Life, who chose you as its protagonist for so long. Here you are now, an unlikely villain within the words.