I used to pray I’d never have to say ‘I told you so’ ,but god damnit I told you so! I warned you not to play with fire. You said you saw sparks but paid no mind to the fire alarms in her chest.
The thing about foreclosed houses is the condition of the estate.
Her chest was deemed uninhabitable but you still shimmied your way into every crack and crevice because you wanted to believe you could make it work.
The stairs are crumbling and the welcome mat is covered in bloodstains.
The deadbolt is locked and even your feeble hands can’t pick the lock.
The thing about abandoned houses is that ghosts live there and they’re vacant for a reason.
You can hang curtains and patch the holes in the drywall but you can’t make that chest a home.
No matter how much you try to insist that it was love, all it ever was were chemical highs followed by an inevitable comedown. It was the kind of love that kept you up for days, high on the feeling of euphoria. But once her fists met the wall, it shocked you back into reality.
You kept insisting the show must go on because the audience applauds at the sight of your clasped hands. She kept reminding you of all the good times spent together and suggested you try to salvage what’s left in the wreckage.
She kept assuring you everything was okay. And you believed her. Not because it was, but because you knew how hard you were trying to make it be.
If you keep letting her hurt the same parts of you over and over, eventually the nerve endings will die and you will feel nothing.
But the waves of electricity running rampant through your veins, the flickering between your thighs, the way she replaced your hollow silence with beautiful, shiny, noise- it all felt like a justification to keep pushing through.
Sure, you separate yourself from her emotionally and mentally, but physically you just can’t break free.
I warned you about stepping foot in the crime scene.
She’s plastered with yellow caution tape, and you were just too color blind to see the warning signs.
She’s got skeletons in her closet she swears don’t belong to her, but if you dig deep enough, you will find DNA convicting her of the crime.
She’s no angel and you’re not capable of performing an exorcisms.
But you felt like it was a privilege to be loved by her.
So you ignored the emotional bruises.
You kept your hands locked with hers because she made you feel real.
You removed the bloodstains from the carpet, and set fire to the evidence.
That was your part of the deal.