Doing all for love

 Take it to your grave, if that's what you want.

I thought you had broken my heart once again, but this time you broke the chains.

At this funeral, I am burying us. I hope you are finally happy. And finally, I am grieving what was lost.

I think of all those moments when I opened myself to you, when I showed you the most vulnerable parts of me.

I thought I was safe. But you were like a snake, patiently waiting, knowing one day you would swallow me whole.

All this time did it truly mean nothing? Because it feels as though you already knew how it would end. As though you always knew I would be the one left bleeding.

What we shared felt real to me. Don't tell me it wasn't. Either you're a remarkable actor, or you're so stubborn that you'd rather make me believe you felt nothing than admit you once loved me.

A selfish fraud.

But perhaps I expected too much. You've fed on intimacy from so many women that it has become just another drink. Another shot poured into a glass already overflowing. By the fourth or fifth of the day, you're already intoxicated. Already numb. Already blacked out.

One more drink changes nothing.

Maybe that's all I was to you. Just another drink.

But I was there. I know what I felt was real.

The question is: were you ever really there?

Was I only a guilty pleasure? Something desired, but never valued. Something tasted, but never chosen.

You would rather die than fight for us.

But then again...

Was there ever an "us" at all?