I should have walked out the door of the room that day,

Uttered not another word, not given even the remotest benefit of the doubt.

She had set me up again,

A cruel way to crush me, instead of being honest,

And she’d still expected that I would fawn over her,

Continuing to pull my strings.

She’d crushed me before,

Nagging me for a confession of my feelings,

Only to stab me with them.

She had not deserved my fascination.

But I believed her profession of friendship,

Too thick-headed, too enamored of a kind heart I’d invented.

She’d always meant to crush me,

And I gave her every opportunity.

She was not a scarred soul seeking love,

But a selfish heart full of disdain,

Without a care for anyone who did not advantage her,

An ego believing herself worth the stars,

The stars being vain, immoral cads with fancy cars,

Puppeteers in search of a puppet to string along.

There had been no call for the cruelty.

She simply enjoyed the drama, mimicking what had been done to her.

And I ceased to be.