Laugh at her. Isn’t she funny?
Doesn’t it feel good to kick her when she’s down? Pure sadistic pleasure, don’t worry, it’s human nature.
Oh look, a butterfly tattoo, must be daddy issues!
Oh hey, is that a scar I see? Well that’s just not good enough for me.
She’s cold to the others. She’s numb to the world. She picked you, lit a fire to warm your heart, and you watched it burn her dreams into dust. She’ll learn to carry the weight of your curse. The pain is no longer a burden; it sets her free.
Don’t look into her eyes. Don’t bother. She’s hidden it so well, you won’t see it. You battered a battered woman but behind the veiled vacancy there’s still a star that shines, a light that refuses to go out. But you won’t see it again.
She won’t accept your pity. She doesn’t want to be saved. You begin to shift the blame – it’s her fault, for not grasping the hands that reached out. You’re just like the others now, so blinded by your own arrogance that you can’t see the truth. You don’t understand how many times she fell. How many have promised to catch her. How their lies have filled her life. How they disappeared so conveniently when she hit the ground and broke for the last time. Does this make you feel better? Do you feel less guilty now? Because you didn’t break her. Because you can’t break a broken heart.
You saw the scars, witnessed the tears. You tried to look away; it wasn’t a pretty sight. You heard the whispers, suffered the screams; so now you think you know her. But can you feel her despair, can you predict her verdict? Can you change her fate, or will you watch her drown? Will you hold her head down, so it won’t take long?
Her breathing turns shallow, time slows down. You’ll only love her when she’s gone.