Take The Blame

No matter where she looked, all she saw was him.

He was in the shadows her nightlight casted on her wardrobe as he whispered in her ear, “Now you’ll never be scared because I’ll be the light.”

He was the empty glass on her table, a sign he was home waiting to embrace her.

He was the smell of vanilla on a cold night, four feet tucked in a tiny bed.

He was a phone call that had to be picked up when she wasn’t around, a hushed “I’ll call you when she leaves.”

He was skin against skin, all the wants in the world woven into one heartbreaking moment.

He was all the “it’s not your fault”s she had heard, a stinging reminder of everything that had happened.

He was the red pool of insecurity, leaving nothing but a trail of destruction on her pure white body.

He was the voice in her head, a careless whisper of “You were never enough.”

She paused in front of her room and stared at the Post-It on the door. “It’s not your fault,” it read and she laughed to herself. 

Of course it was. 


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