For me, 

you were a miracle, 

a secret, 

untouchable, youthful,

my favorite metaphor,

but it turned into the darkest poem,

you took what I had to give,

until there was nothing left,

you matched my anger with silly promises,

you told me things, 

whispering lilting memories in my ear,

as if you didn't do this with all your whores,

I can't remember any good times,

no loving tribute to your tyrany,

you remind me of a wolf

dressed as a sheep,

you covered your sharp teeth

with cunning lies,

you covered your bloodlust with

your skilled passions,

but all you were doing was sucking my blood,

draining me of what you wanted,

opening me up like a book,

reading my words,

and slamming it shut once you got

the satisfaction of knowing I was in love with you,

you lied,

and I grieved,

why did you stay so long,

was I different from all the other

sheep you hunted,

I was, 

because I was a wolf in sheep's

clothing, too,

and I knew how to break you right back,

and you lost that glint, 

and I gained mine,

you broke your heart,

and I mended mine.