Irony

You slice my wrists,

Leave me to bleed,

To die.

The harlot, 

Picks me up,

Bathes my wounds with her tears.

Heals, with her words of solace. 

When I finally find peace,

You return.

With a devilish glint in your eyes,

Ready to strike again.

No acceptance, No apology, 

Simply, "the past cannot be changed",

"Can we be friends now?"- that ball you hurl in my court. 

And to think I once called this man, "my hero"!