We never really expect the people we trust to hurt us.

Hindsight often brings with it a sense of irony, making us feel stupid at how obvious things were. So many warn about the tendency to trust people with far too much eagerness or the fact people are selfish by nature. But do we ever learn? Of course not. Never do we actually consider that we are essentially giving people the power; the very tools and methods to hurt us—plucking out bits of our hearts and handing them out, hoping they’re cherished.

We often think ourselves lucky to have met them.

What luck.

Tea turns stone cold as we stare into the abyss. The very thought of luck laughable. Manipulation disguised as luck is beautiful until the dangers begin. And until the fantasy is shattered. A kind of ache that is unmatched and unwanted.

To lose is normal, but this? This ache is nothing like that. It’s so much worse.

It’s the words. The words that cut so deep it’s a miracle to have survived. And the fading shadow as they walk away, scattering the ground with the very pieces they were supposed to cherish, their footsteps digging each one into the earth. Such talent. Such destruction. Such grace.

Remnants of hearts squeeze in cages while facts become clearer than the fantasy. When lovers become enemies. When friends become foe. When us fools become court jesters for the words to point and laugh at, looming over us with the power of memory. And even if it makes sense, when the rose glasses fall and the evil is exposed, we feel nothing but twisted pity for those who slithered in and settled down in the deepest parts of us. We pity every pump of the heart, every breath of the lungs, ever tear from the blinded eyes…

We pity what never was.

What fools.

There is no comfort, no magic cloak that acts like armour around the frame. Swiping the mug with screams that drown the sound of shattering porcelain cannot bring peace within. Fists balls tightly until the pain in our hands surpass the pain in our hearts but it is fleeting, as realisation returns.

But they won’t.

And the agonising knowledge that we’d give up everything to make that so, is tragic.

Beg. That’s the next bit, right? Unable to like head with heart, we beg for their embrace, knowing it would be the only relief. Just a moment to feel that they were real, that the love we feel is real.

It was real.

No. It was not.

But with the terror is long gone, leaving behind a soul deep ache for the ones who had stolen our hearts for themselves.

Silly, how we’d thought we were done crying. No more tears left to cry and all that.

We every moment with perfect clarity. Every glide of their hands had a hint possessiveness, like he’d never let us go.

But then they did.

With closed eyes, we sink in the darkness. Here, we can almost hear them. We can feel them if we just let go, only for a moment. We slide back down to the earth, leaning against our broken pieces, trying to take on the teachings of others and suppress everything. But the pressure of keeping it down did nothing but cause it to explode, leaving us writhing on the floor, fighting the inward battle. How sick must we be to worship those who kill us?

Every action, every loving word, each moment passed and we were completely open and vulnerable. We would’ve done anything for them. Anything they’d asked.

Why didn’t they ask?

All they did was smile, create a perfect world within which we felt safe, needed. Loved. And still, with that smile plastered on their face, they ripped it away from us. They even seemed to enjoy it. And yet, we wish them here again.

What fools.

They say we need to be strong, stand on our own and deal with things calmly. Tomorrow, maybe. That’s a job for future us.

So we clamber up, letting the armour pool our feet, hands slipping beneath the table as we are consumed by the memories. Pulling up, it tipped. It all tipped over.

Books fly. Glass shatters. Tears fall. Blood pours. Screams filled the air as limbs punch and kick out at all inanimate objects until no energy is left to fight the drowning sensation, just willingness to be consumed.

Just for tonight.