I let you mess with me, and you let me mess with you. Is that what we were both told love is?

"I swear my intentions were gold."

I wonder if it kills you as much as it kills me to know I was right all along.

Why is it, that when our hearts are broken, and I mean truly broken, it doesn't help us move on?
Instead we linger on the pain.
If our hearts break, do we just have all the pieces in our chest, trying oh so hard to beat together in rhythm again?
Or is is because we lost a piece of our hearts?
It wasn't a shatter, but a clean cut.
We want to prove to ourselves that it wasn't for nothing.
That our heart wasn't sliced and diced for no reason.

"I love you."
"Okay."

Dejectedly followed by a pained face, attempted to be masked by a laugh that wasn't much better.

This is a good thing.

I see him through terrified eyes, while I study the anger on his face.
My eyes may be filled with fright, but his are filled with frustration and hate.
I hope that his facial expressions are the only thing he'll do to show his discontentment.
I don't want to go down that road again.

Hey Meg,
you've been punk'd,
love God.