He was forced to relive the betrayal, forced to delve through the lies one again, 

Preparing for battle against those she had sent to destroy him, 

The evil lies, the willful omissions, the lack of acknowledgement for whom she knew he really was, pretending him a demon when she had known otherwise, 

Only desiring to be vindictive and treating him as a dangerous stranger.

The vindictiveness so vile … so evil … so faithless and cruel, 

The reek of vanity and insanity so pungent one could choke on it. 

If he’d made the equivalent of an obscene gesture, 

She had answered with a howitzer, a nuclear bomb, 

So smug in her imagined superiority, cushioned by her obstinacy, and having been the first to throw insult. 

It was downright inhuman, the work of a completely spoiled princess, an almost sociopathic response to passion, 

Believing she could claim whatever she wanted and believe it justified, 

She’d reached for the nadir of morality … and found it, covering herself in shit that would not wash off, 

Acting just like those irrational lunatics with no grasp on reality, 

As if she had the sole right in the universe to act badly and pay no price. 

Marking herself forever a creature of spite, a vampire who crawled in the filth with kindred slime — vacant, ugly, stupid … 

But the hidden reality was even more hideous, 

For her actions had another reason, the real reason, kept secret from her enablers and not pure ice as she feigned,

Revenge. 

She had never been able to hide her true being from him, no matter how hard she tried to play stone, 

And she’d given herself away too many times to count. 

She could not let him walk away, though she spat at him and defamed him. 

He’d finally rejected her and her heart could not take it, as much as she professed not to care, 

It was revenge, o ye who coddle the liar … and it remains revenge, 

A vengeance for the pain he caused her heart, 

Castigation for turning his back on her, something she could never do to him, even after she had sent the dogs to tear him apart … even now. 

She was a liar, a vain asshole, a cold fraud of a person, a self-absorbed psychosis, obeying the stupidity her world had trained her to obey … 

But her heart had wanted him anyway, 

And he was not allowed to walk away, not allowed not to choose her, though she would not take him. 

It was revenge. 

And she knew it. 

She could strike him down for the adulation of the morons who told her to do it, while trying to murder her own feelings, justify her betrayal, a betrayal of herself, 

One swift pack of lies, cultivated to paint a picture of what had never existed … and he would be dead, she could move on, 

But it did not happen as she’d planned. 

And soon her heart began to beat her down for her betrayal and she could not keep it to herself any longer, 

So, although she would never admit to her pain, pain caused by what she had instigated, pain of losing someone she knew she’d had but refused, 

She sent a sign of guilt … red, and gave her guilt away. 

But she stayed silent and now she has embraced her cold, embraced her falseness, embraced her role as future whore to some well-off but worthless prick who will never appreciate her for true, 

And she has sentenced herself, for the rest of her life, however short, to living the lie she is expected to live, though she still watches him, still pines in silence, 

She obeys the brutes who hold her leash, those whom, if they ever approach him to carry out her continued need for revenge, will not walk away again. 

She is belligerent and forever incapable of redeeming herself, of admitting anything,

Refusing to take responsibility for what she has done when he needs it most, 

And convincing herself that she owes him nothing, making herself as wretched as those who have used her, abused her, lied to her, and had no guilt about it at all, 

Pretending to be just like them, too scared of truth to ever come clean, 

Which does nothing but guarantee the shit will never be washed from her, and her seat in hell is assured.

And he will not weep for her, for she has no soul left for which to weep. 

Love was never an option for her, only pretense, and she, in the forever denial of her sins, has never earned and does not deserve the real thing. 

Her fire is wasted on the filthy, the false, wasted on lies, wasted on vanity. 

She will reap what she has sown herself in her petulance.