You used me, played me for a fool, your promises as empty as the wind. Every letter we hid under that loose brick, every whispered vow, was a lie. You were my light, my only refuge, and you extinguished it without a care. You promised me, at twenty-five, you’d be my bride, your words a melody that soothed my battered soul. I believed you, Penelope, with every fiber of my being. But you were a mirage, a cruel illusion cloaked in love’s guise.
