Convinced he was the sculptor,

as he chipped at me with a chisel.

Petrified, every time he beckoned me,

like canines called by whistle.

Rusty hangers hid the skeletons,

and all the corpses in his closet.

How desperate for love, was I, 

to ignore the red flags and gossip.

First, I forewent my own happiness

in exchange for demonic demands,

my religion relied on empty promises,

that I ate directly from his hands.

Then, he moulded me like I was clay,

and cleansed me of my former self,

performed open-heart surgery 

while assuring me he was my health.

Soon, I was frail as decrepit trees,

my nerves wouldn't survive the winter,

I was infected by his insecurity,

should've removed him when 

he was just a splinter.