Artificial

You tricked me.

You looked like the sun was peaking from in between the clouds above the calm sea, you smell like cherry tarts, sweet, so sickening sweet.

You were my favourite smell, so sickening you were I got a headache.

You came when I was in a desert, like morning dew, just enough, I had to lick the floors to clench my thirst, enough to keep me waiting for more, and I drank like it was the best rye I’ve ever tasted.

You were kind, inviting, exciting, with those umber eyes and your ebony hair over your alabaster skin.

Your voice soft like rain, refreshing and so alluring.

I thought you angel when you were a hellborn by right, you still are.

By the time I realized the scent of brimstone and rot you hid under the sickeningly sweet cologne you wore, I was too deep in.

And so you broke me, you picked my brain apart and put it together again, whatever way you found amusing.

You scraped my insides, you broke my smiles, you destroyed my soul, and I’m still picking up the pieces and trying to stitch them together.

Your own methods should be applied to you, little by little until you break.

You are truly a master of pain and torture. You nurtured me and destroyed me in a terrifyingly well crafted cycle, a circus you were the master of.

You found my weaknesses and exploited them until you got bored, just to then create new ones out of thin air and use them against me.

I was your favourite toy, and I believed it.

They say everyone needs a second chance but I gave you enough of those.

And now, years after the puppet broke its own strings, it finds itself thinking of you, the puppeteer.

How would you like to be tied up to a wooden cross and made to dance around to the rhythm of my voice?

I used to be scared of the prospect of ever crossing paths with you again.

I hope you like the taste of your own poison.

Oh, the day we finally meet again.