Thief Of Me
There's a certain point in life, in EVERYONE'S life, when they are susceptible to change, or rather, when who they are isn't as yet set and therefore extremely impressionable.
When I met her, she was his sister. In such a short time she became my friend. And in time much shorter still, I fell in love with her. I was already in love with her, I suppose I could have said, but it doesn't matter. When I knew her, when I loved her, is when she stole me.
It started small, of course. A word, a phrase, an expression. Then she had all my words, as if she'd sifted them from my mind, from my mouth. So I was left speechless.
She had my love, but with that she was not satisfied. So she stole my heart. For what purpose? To use as her own. Before me she was incapable of loving, and I sincerely believe that.
Now she had my heart and my words, and was she satisfied? No. So she broke my soul, broke it and carefully gathered and pocketed the pieces, rearranged them and claimed them for herself. Still she was not done, and what had I left?
My masochism and my submission. These she ripped away forcibly, after already having left such visible scars.
She destroyed me.
(And the only definition I have left is "mother", the only definition she was incapable of taking away.)
Now...now all those who know her love her. They love her because of what she stole from me, what she never would have had if she'd never come across my path. They love her because they know nothing of who she is, they know not the thief, but only the image.
I know the thief. I know she behind the image. I know of her the things she dares not tell anyone else. Of course I know these things.
And I think to myself, when I'm being honest, I think, "She might not be a thief, you know. I mean, can you really steal what is freely given?"
And I think to myself, "I know all her secrets. I am the one who knows all her lies. So why am I the one who loves her still?"
Should have, could have, would have, maybe, and if. Plagues, all, plagues I cannot overcome.
Laters
When I met her, she was his sister. In such a short time she became my friend. And in time much shorter still, I fell in love with her. I was already in love with her, I suppose I could have said, but it doesn't matter. When I knew her, when I loved her, is when she stole me.
It started small, of course. A word, a phrase, an expression. Then she had all my words, as if she'd sifted them from my mind, from my mouth. So I was left speechless.
She had my love, but with that she was not satisfied. So she stole my heart. For what purpose? To use as her own. Before me she was incapable of loving, and I sincerely believe that.
Now she had my heart and my words, and was she satisfied? No. So she broke my soul, broke it and carefully gathered and pocketed the pieces, rearranged them and claimed them for herself. Still she was not done, and what had I left?
My masochism and my submission. These she ripped away forcibly, after already having left such visible scars.
She destroyed me.
(And the only definition I have left is "mother", the only definition she was incapable of taking away.)
Now...now all those who know her love her. They love her because of what she stole from me, what she never would have had if she'd never come across my path. They love her because they know nothing of who she is, they know not the thief, but only the image.
I know the thief. I know she behind the image. I know of her the things she dares not tell anyone else. Of course I know these things.
And I think to myself, when I'm being honest, I think, "She might not be a thief, you know. I mean, can you really steal what is freely given?"
And I think to myself, "I know all her secrets. I am the one who knows all her lies. So why am I the one who loves her still?"
Should have, could have, would have, maybe, and if. Plagues, all, plagues I cannot overcome.
Laters
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