I don't miss him,
just the escape that he promised.
I thought I could be that girl from my records, if I just stayed the course,
kept my thoughts as clear as the skin on my face tuned selfies,
kept my mind on my madness, staring at my sickness until she grew small.
I've never loved anyone more than I loved myself,
except those pretty girls I became preoccupied with.
I would weep for them at night,
wailing all the way to lonesome town,
weighed down by whispers of the rumours swirling around my head.
I was the town's loudest gossip,
accusations snaking from the lips that longed for soft, sentimental kisses from the fairer, but forbidden sex.
I spent the night in solitude,
slathering my innocent skin with lotions and potions,
poisoned by the thought of her,
a glimmer of guilt when he crept back into my mind,
his heartbroken hand, tight around my throat,
until the world was a whimsical song,
slowly fading to black.
Maybe it was what I deserved.
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