Look at all these hearts I broke for you

I wrote this a week ago...



Another broken heart is achieved.
Adjusting my grip, I feel its final clamor.
My hands are dripping wet, stinging from the sorrow that was kept within. Hidden.
They never showed me.
I filled them with that sorrow.
I tempted them.
Addiction was inevitable.
The streaks of tears on their faces were the most pitiful, and yet most glorious track marks one could ever behold.
Boldly displaying their lack of shame for their obsession.
I let them believe in “us”.
They continued in valiant attempts, but never completely obtained me.
I’m not sure if I even could at this point.
It’s taken me this long to realize that.
To realize a lot of things.
I’ve been addicted as well.
I tricked myself into this.
What a thing to do.
And this smell. This smell is so familiar.
This stinging on my hands, it isn’t from their blood.
It’s my own heart.
What just happened?
I’m loosing feeling in my limbs.
It’s spreading like a disease.
Like lies.
I retreat to the floor willingly, as the choice to do so was quickly fleeting.
My body begins to coil from the contamination in my blood.
From the lethal amounts of oxygen circulating throughout my body.
A side effect of the rapid and panicked breathes I struggle for.
My vision is fading and complacency is setting in.
My blood is on my hands.
I broke my own heart.