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Your hands are shaking with rage, but I know you’re too tired to argue. So pretend again. Pretend you’re right, pretend you don’t love me, pretend this time you’ll go and never come back. There’s a dark cloud looming over the room. I can see the fear in your eyes, of being alone again.

There’s a smirk on my face as you pack your bags, almost like I’m daring you to do it. My eyes are fixated on you like it’s the first time you’re walking away. Something about this feels wrong. You seem more determined than usual, but I know you.

You’ll begin to lose sleep as always, craving any kind of interaction. It's almost impossible for you to accept it, but you’ll do just about anything to come home. All I have to do is wait patiently for your separation anxiety to seep in, and you’ll come right back.

You know me. I don’t like giving up control. It always feels like something strange and unfamiliar. You’ve ignored it the past and let it destroy what we have, and I know you’ll do it again. You’d always rather see the good in me. The way you thought I’d looked while making you breakfast one morning.

You’ve trained yourself to see the best in people and that's exactly what you’ll do for me. You keep thinking that someday I’ll hold a boombox outside your window and apologise profusely. You long for a moment of weakness, where I’d come running back to you.

So here it is. It’s barely audible, but here it is, my moment of weakness.

I’m manipulative, you’re desperate, so walk into my arms one more time and I’ll tell you it’ll be alright while twisting the knife.


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