I love you just a little too much
You’ll let anything happen as long as it hurts. You want to find something that’s going to hurt more than when he tore you apart. But oh god, he hurt you more than anything. He started with your skin. He skinned you alive when he told you he didn’t love you anymore. Your bare flesh left you exposed, vulnerable. He poured alcohol over your entire body and lit you on fire, he left you to burn when he said he was done with you, he hadn’t felt the same way about you in weeks, he won’t feel the same way again, it’s over. Once you finally start to tolerate the pain he’s already caused.. once you finally start to recover from the burns, he takes his knife and he cuts you into pieces when he tells you he didn’t mean it when he said those things to you, he wasn’t thinking straight, he has always loved you, he will always love you. You’re sick of feeling fragile and weak, you want to believe it, you want to take what you can get, so you do. He pieces you back together with “I love you”, “You’re my babygirl, I’ll never leave you”, “You’re my happiness, you’re all I need, I love you, I’ll never hurt you, I want to make you happy, I want you to be okay, I want you to be better than okay”, “I’m yours, you’re mine, it’s going to be this way for as long as we live.” But when he disappears and you don’t hear from him, the stitches he used to sew you back together start to unwind. Thoughts of him start to eat away at you, and you start to physically deteriorate. When he comes back and tries to tell you he loves you, when he tries to act like things are okay, like nothing has changed, you don’t care. The words mean nothing to you when they’re unaccompanied. You stand there, stoic, as the bullets fly past you. But when one finally hits you, it doesn’t just wound you, it punctures your heart. Your knees shake and your eyes roll back into your head as your eyelids shut, forevermore, and you drop dead onto the floor. The last thing you saw was him standing there in front of you, gun in hand, with a smile on his face. He might’ve fired the bullet, but you made yourself the target. But none of that matters. You’ve been dead since the night he told you he didn’t love you anymore, the night he ripped your heart out of your chest and squeezed until it was dry. He didn’t need to shoot you to kill you; you were already dead.