Misery masked itself as pleasure, Darkness portrayed itself as art. Or so I believed, naive, unaware — Your words pierced straight through my heart, Time drenched in the agony left behind. The lips that praised me, no longer did — Instead they whispered false pretence. The hands that welcomed me, no longer did — Instead they drove a dagger through my innocence. Nights seemed shallow, and days hollowed me out, Yet still you taunt me without ceasing. Perhaps it is false belief, or only wishful thinking — "If I was a girl in a book, this would all be so easy."