You have hurt me. You know this.

Ripped my heart out with carefully gloved hands,
torn it into shreds,
and placed a dark, unholy thing inside my chest.

I have let you. I know this.

Allowed you the privilege of knowing me,
of loving me for so long.
I knew that this was the outcome.

It is genetic, perhaps. In my blood, in yours, to do this.
Animalistic in nature - wholly expected, unstoppable.
What else would we do?

I would follow you, still.
Entrails hanging out of me, a hole in my chest, a nothingness.
Stumble after you, gasping, pleading. I would do it.

But you have not asked. You will not.
I do not think it pleases you, to see me like this.
Wasting what you have given me. Ignoring your lessons.

I would not go as far
as to suggest that it hurts you.
I am not so mindless.
Sometimes, I wish I was.

Still, you have hurt me. You know this.
I have let you. I know this.
You will light a fire, and I will not follow you through.
Not until you cave, and ask. It may take years.
You will wait until the thing is...whole.
Until it is some semblance of my old heart.

The universe will watch, and she will sigh.
These are her only constants, now.
It brings her little comfort. It brings me less.