The day I came to be what I am now; you told me that it was love and it was forever; the knife you held against my wrist, pulling so gently; the line left behind the trail of cold metal; the way you tasted me then.

This was your promise. This was your gift.

I let you into my mind and you touched me in ways that I never let anyone.

I opened up my body and soul and let you take from me the most precious gift of all�

When you told me that things were different and it couldn�t be the way it was before, I felt something inside of me change. It was, perhaps, the first moment of truth between us. The realization that it was all a game to you, transformed me into someone and something else�

You begged me to stop � but somehow, I just couldn�t hear you; as if you had gone suddenly mute.

�Lick it,� I whispered and held my wrist against your lips, �be a good girl and kiss the promise you made to me.�

�Fuck you.�

Your hair fit so well between my fingers as I grabbed a handful and pulled until finally, you found your voice and managed a small, stifled cry. �Now, now� don�t make me have to hurt you.�

I felt the cold metal against my leg - a faint reminder. Slowly, I positioned my leg between yours, lifting your skirt just enough. �Do you feel that?� I was detached, uncaring of the fear I smelled exuding from your pores, �Well, do you?�

You nodded.

�Let�s play a little game.� A cruel smile curved at the corners of my lips and I laughed under my breath. �Do you know what I have here, waiting for you?�

I motioned under my own skirt, taking a single finger and running it up my leg to that piece of steel. Slowly, I fondled it, reveling every second my flesh made contact. With a quick motion, I dragged my finger across and brought it up for you to examine.

The blood pooled at the tip, dripping around the base of my hand. A single tear sliding down your beautiful cheek confirmed to me that you did indeed know what it was.

�You see this?� I took the edges of my shirt and pulled; several of the buttons snapped and rolled across the floor. My trembling hand, sticky with blood, traced the outline of a place � so fragile - on my naked flesh; a rough drawing of a place that held my heart. �Once upon a time, I could feel something here.�

�I don�t think you ever felt anything there, did you?� I gently reached to my thigh and took the knife in my hands. For a moment, I admired it in the candlelight � the way the flame flickered and gleaned off of the blade.

I brought the edge close to your face, outlining tenderly, the curve of the cheek and down around your chin, tracing slowly along your neck, just stopping short of that delicate clavicle.

With precise self-control, I plucked a button off of the top of your white blouse. The edges fell away; no longer supported with the butterfly-shaped clasp that was severed and �flightless� on the floor. My hand slid under the soft, cotton material, resting against your chest. I counted the rhythm that pulsed under my fingertips.

�You live, now. Your heart says you do � I can feel it under my fingers � in that steady cadence�but, tell me,� my voice dropped to a whisper, �what is it you live for?�

�It�s not love.� The scar on my left wrist ached briefly. �It wouldn�t be as simple as sex,� I said, taking your hand in mine and placing it between my legs. With the flat of the knife, I lifted your chin, forcing you to meet my gaze, �Was it the game then?�

I saw the fear spread through those gorgeous eyes.

�You loved pulling the strings,� the bitterness in my words hung in the air. �You loved me as your marionette.� I began to see you break, beautifully, in front of me. The panic drove you back, further into the room � further into the darkness. Your breath came in small, terrified gasps.

�Come, pull my strings again.� I followed, on hands and knees, sliding slowly towards you � crawling, closer and closer; my eyes adjusting quickly to the shadows. �I beg you � look at me.� Your eyes closed tightly as if I didn�t exist in the darkness behind those lids.

�You will look at me.� I grabbed your face in my hands and lifted the knife.

I knew now, how this would end.

The knife made circles around your eyes, so tenderly � over and over and over again.

�Look at me and admire the visage of being broken; broken, by your own hands. It�s beautiful to you, isn�t it?� I pressed the knife down, cutting into the flesh just at the corner of your eye. You flinched at the pain, but made no sound save the sharp intake of air as the skin split under the blade. �Now, open your eyes.�

Like the good girl you were, they opened, finally then.

"Does it make you want me to see the ruin carved here?� I lifted a single finger and motioned to my head, tapping gently on my temple. �Knowing that the pain that drove me deeper was through you?�

I watched the blood, starting at the incision, drip down your cheek and trace the delicate line of your chin until it slid slowly down onto your chest; A scarlet rain, just for me.

I tongued the blade, tasting the brine of your tears, and pressed it against my lips. The pain lasted for just a second, replaced by that familiar flavor, sharp and metallic.

You had backed yourself into the corner, sobbing silently, trembling. There was nowhere left to run. The blood had soaked through your white cotton blouse.

Each tear that fell carried the blood down the beautiful face I had believed in and worshipped, once. I stopped for a moment and admired you in all your damaged splendor.

It was time; time to lick my wounds clean.

I lifted myself off of the ground and walked toward you, slowly and precisely.

Do you ever wonder what happened to that na�ve, young girl you left behind so long ago?

Where was the girl whose body and mind you fucked until there was nothing left?

And then there was me; borne of the vacuum left in the hole of her idealistic heart - the incarnation of all her pain, her chaos, wrath and acrimony. I fed on her tears for months, waiting patiently for a chance to re-define and reshape her broken psyche.

Perhaps the adage fits, then: �when the paper�s crumpled up it can�t be perfect again�. Yes, perhaps.

That girl is gone, now and forever. There IS only me.

I am and therefore I must.

I held you tightly, crushing you in my embrace. You struggled briefly, fighting as long as the ether allowed. You fell into unconsciousness so beautifully; I laughed at its ease. You were delicate compared to me; you always were. It was your pride; and now it was your ruin.

Now it has become what was meant to be.

I knelt by your body, tracing the lines of blue veins that ran up your arms. The pulse was slow under your soft skin; so slow� The fragrance of your perfume hung in the air, sweet like flowers.

Did you know it took weeks for me to forget the way you smelled? Weeks to forget the way you touched me? Weeks to just be able to live outside of your haunting memory�Sometimes, the nightmares return, despite every measure I�ve taken to hide from them.

It doesn�t matter now � soon, they will quiet themselves; these voices that whisper� soon, it will all be over�

Slowly and precisely, I opened the wound on my finger � waiting for the blood to pool and drew a simple circle in the palm of your hand. The small box at my feet laid open like Pandora�s Box held everything that I needed to find my way to psychological salvation.

I drew another circle, symmetric on the other hand. Circles of blood. Then came the feet � one for each � and two on the nape of that lovely neck. And it was finished � the artist in me withdrew.

My hands trembled as I reached into the box. I felt them then, cool under my fingers; one by one. Deftly I worked in the dimming light of the candles, meticulously creating my, magnum opus, the final and most beautiful work of art.

Hours passed and still I toiled, carefully perfecting you. Once or twice you roused from the depths of that black oblivion, only to be greeted by another breath of ether. With the last piece in place, I stood back in amazement.

It was both beautiful and grotesque.

Your silhouette danced with the candles against the cold stone walls. Each arm stretched in the pose of crucifixion, the weight pressed the wire. Your feet rested against the chair I�d placed underneath to balance the burden and finally, above your head, was your halo. The wooden stake struck firmly into the stone � holding you, my masterpiece.

I felt something inside of me smile. It was the slight smile of one tempered by time and broken by circumstance.

Stepping on the chair I kissed your soft lips �It�s my turn to pull the strings�� My whisper died off into the room as I turned away from you. �Yes, now it has become what was meant to be��