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I've died a hundred times

in a hundred different ways

at the hands of a hundred men.

And I find myself still bleeding

even after all these years.

The chapter(s) closed but 

there are pages yet to be written. 

The sweet memories linger,

but the heartache cuts deeper.

One chose his friends over me,

another picked drugs instead.

One lied through his teeth;

others ghosted me. 

I've been called crazy, clingy,

selfish, manipulative. 

I've had my heart broken,

my spirit crushed.

I've known love that faded

and love that was unrequited. 

One touched me in ways 

no one ever had.

I gave myself completely to another,

but it still wasn't enough.

They all killed me 

a little at a time,

each with a dagger through my heart. 

I've been drained dry,

but the wound reopens 

every time I touch it. 

And it pours out violently

and I realize I haven't healed,

not in these thousands of verses.