The Villain

I've been too distraught to write.

I'm physically sickened by the thoughts that run rampant in my mind-- to put them in ink feels like an oozing wound added to the thousand paper cuts. I didn't ever expect it to happen this way, truly... I didn't expect to be slowly chipped away at, pushed away, contempted until I returned in kind, only to have an ax land on my neck when my head was turned the other direction. I didn't know I was headed for the gallows—perhaps a life of servitude, yes, but never execution.

How can we mend when you've made me the villain?