Only I bleed her

"The painting is her. Her ruin, my hunger. Every stroke on the canvas carves her deeper into me. I own her screams now." I don't mind saying the ing word now. I’ve been an *******— it doesn't ing matter. The painting on the wall taunts me, staring, silent, brutal— reminding me of her. Of the way she smiled before I crushed it. Of the way her eyes used to beg— God, I miss it. She broke me. I shattered her worse. And still— I'm not ready to let her go. I don’t want to. I don’t know how. The tears I drag out of her— holy, violent things, falling from lips that still curse my name. She hates me. Maybe I hate her too. But hate has teeth and claws, and love just lies there, bleeding. Apologies rot on the tip of my mouth, waiting, festering. I could say I'm sorry. I could beg. But damn it, I love to make her cry. Her sobs are mine. Her ruined voice is mine. She’s mine. Mine to cage. Mine to ruin. Mine to break until there’s nothing soft left. No one else gets to bleed her. No one else gets to call her broken Only me