I still can't believe the glaze of romanticized layers you apply, because I know of your true nature of manipulating many more than myself; hidden from cameras, only heard in hushed whispers I should have heeded.
We are almost strangers again because my eyes are superglued open after our history pages displayed the sick truth of your secondhand rehearsed lines and designs. In my heart is forgiveness, yet forgetting means you will try to ease yourself under my skin to cast a spell I cannot afford to be under.
You are on fire, not from desire, but from your lies and broken promises. Detailing the history with embellishments is typical of your endless journey to toy with my mind again. Each line you wrote contains intricate memories of the road I forked away from, littered with slices of the truth and bait meant to attract my wayward gaze.
Content, I watch you spin so fast on your homemade merry-go-round and wish you well.