it's like a scene in a play
mapped out
written down

and we all know the ending.

it ends with blood,
broken bones and body parts.
and little understanding of the fact that
this is all your fault.

you'd rather make believe that this is my fault

that I'm the one who never loved you
and I'm the one who never cared
and I'm the one who left you.

but darling, we both know it's just the opposite.

and this scene,
this scene is coming down all around us
the lights are crashing,
the curtains have fallen
and we're buried beneath them.

and then it comes to an end.

the scene is over,
our blood has splattered,
it's done.
but it's still the same.

every time, you're still the one whose left me.

and I'm lying broken under the curtains.