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He is a fire.

You are paper, melting from the heat.

He is a lion,

And you are a gazelle caught in his teeth.

He is a gun firing at random,

And you are caught in the crossfire.

He is the light reflected on a lake,

And you are the reeds at the bottom.

Each shun should get easier, yet here you are again,

Watching red pools gather in your hands like spilt ink.

How pretty it is.

Rejection was never your easiest pill to swallow,

Always getting lodged in your throat,

Until you are once again on your knees,

Coughing up rose petals at his feet.


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