I don’t love you anymore and I want you to leave.
I’ll cut you out of my veins if I have to. I’ll reach into my chest and wring my heart out until I have a bloody cup of you, and then I’ll pour it into a flower pot – surely you can still grow something beautiful, but not inside me. You were rotting in this body, and this body was dying of malnutrition.
Maybe I loved you in that Stockholm’s Syndrome way. Maybe you liked me loving you that way, with fear and devotion and reverence blind like staring into the sun, retinas burned until the the rest of the world was dull and you were the only light because the space you burnt out in my eyes was one only you could fill.
In fact, maybe I never loved you at all.
If I loved you, it was only because I didn’t know what else to love.