Who did this to you?
Who wove pain into your soul,
lacing it with darkness,
and staining your heart blue?
Who painted your eyes with tears,
and etched sorrow on your skin,
tracing the fractures of your being,
as if it were a form of art?
Whose hands molded your fears,
and sculpted your fragile dreams,
into shards of shattered hope,
falling silently, like forgotten stars?
Who turned your smiles to whispers,
and your laughter into echoes,
trapped within the chambers of your chest,
aching to be released?
Who whispered lies into your ear,
and poisoned your trust with doubt,
seeding betrayal in the soil of your trust,
where love once bloomed?
Who held you captive in your own mind,
and locked all the doors to escape,
leaving you to wander the corridors,
of your own torment?
Who did this to you?
Was it the world, unkind and uncaring,
or perhaps fate, unyielding and cruel,
or was it yourself, the cruelest of all?
But in truth, it matters not,
for the answer lies not in who inflicted the wounds,
but in who will heal them,
for it is you, my dear, it is you.
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