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"!

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