You.

It was always about you. Wasn’t it?

I accommodated. You took. I acquiesced. You gloated. I offered an independent thought. You balked.

You ran, claiming to be busy. All the while playing, in public, for me to see — You, having fun, without me.

You apologized. Not for what passed, but for peace. We hugged. We kissed. You stroked my hair and I whispered sweet nothings in your ear.

Two weeks passed, full of bliss. Of happiness. Of life. Of love.

I offered an independent thought, veiled and uncertain.

You struck out in anger unfounded. I bruised. You cried.

I died.

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