I was the one who gave him everything.
Arms–a home for both his body and heart.
I gave him everything . . .
including the knife he twisted around, used to
me into Julius’s corpse.
I gave him everything,
and I was the one who paid.
Paid with a open and giving heart,
once red and vibrant and new,
now dead on the cold stone floor,
broken and beaten and bruised.
They told me as I continued to give him
every beat, every piece of my heart
that love is pain.
And love is pain.
Love is giving too much of yourself
because every fiber of your being just loves to love.
But sometimes giving too much of yourself
leaves you bleeding on the floor
with a knife in your back.
You gave everything . . .
and you were the one who paid.
Love is pain.
Love is paid.