Love Isn't

“I love you with all of my heart” I say, and I mean it too. You are like a God to me, tall, older, intelligent. I grovel on my knees for any scrap of attention you hurl my way and I’m grateful for it, no better than your dog, no smarter in your eyes either.

You taught me to love in a fucked up way. You made me cum, and I repaid you with my loyalty, my trust, my entire being. Whatever you wanted, whatever you needed whatever I could do to prove how much you were worth.

But you didn’t love me like that.

I sit here and see what you have done. The butter you smeared on all of the walls lends an eerie glow to the room as the candles you lit and placed upon the table flicker with my catching breath, the table with the pentagram you drew in red paint. Why would you do that? I wonder to myself, and then dismiss the thought because I can hear you in my head. I pick up the broken glass you scattered around the room and cut myself by accident. I don’t tend the wounds though; somehow they make it all more real. I watch as the blood from my face runs with the blood from my hands upon the floor. This should hurt, I think, but I don’t feel anything.

I am leaving you now, and I will never be back.