The Trophy

You're so full of shit,
it's almost enough to make me laugh.
You saw me lying on the floor,
bleeding and broken and writhing in agony,
so you pranced in, reached out a hand,
and I grabbed it.
You picked me up and pretended to dress my wounds.

But you didn't, did you?
No, and I think we both knew that.

You cleaned me off,
even as the blood continued to flow,
and handed me a new skin.

A costume.

"This will fix it.
Everything."
you said, knowing smile spreading
from one ear to the other.

And I believed you.

For how could you lie to me?

My savior.

He who took me under his wing
when everyone else beat me and turned me away.

How could you, of all people,
be false?

And so I went with you.
I never left your side.
You held me up, like a new toy.
Like a shiny new trophy.

But you know what I've discovered
the problem is with trophies?

Eventually they win another one.

So when that day came,
when you found another trophy-
shinier, prettier-
who was expendable?

Who did you beat bloody?

Who did you leave laying on the floor,
bleeding and broken and writhing in agony?

Oh, look-
here comes someone.

He's...
he's holding out his hand.

Maybe if I...
if I just reach out and grab it...