Open Fire

What if I wanted to fight?

What would you do? Would you beg me to stop, persuade me that this was not what I really want; or would you stand back and let me leave?

Because I'm finished with you.

I can't take this anymore, I'm sick of lying and faking every single smile I paste onto my face.

You destroyed me, but I'm not going to run from you anymore. You can't break me, you can't mess with my head or thoughts ever again.

All I wanted was you, but you turned around and threw it back in my face.

I tried to be someone else, but nothing seemed to change; and I know now that this is who I really am.

Oh, are you scared? I bet you are. With every person I tell, every person I cling to for help, a part of you dies.

You told me I was weak. But you're the weak one, you need us victims to live: you thrive on our pain and anguish.

And nobody notices until it's too late to do anything, right?

That's your sick little plan. Make us hide you from the world, all the while immortalising you, worshipping you; then at the last moment, once we are assured that we're perfect ... you show yourself as you really are.

You make us show ourselves as we are.

Dying.

But not anymore. I'm finished with you killing me, I'm finished with you turning me into something that isn't real.

I don't care if I fall without you.

I'm not going back to you.

Ever.

I may have doubts about myself, but at least I'm not sick enough to take it out on other people like you do. You started this, you invented this disturbing little game; a game of death, of pain, of lies.

We personify you, we hang posters of your victims on our walls; looking for a way out of our own sad lives to join you in eternal glory.

You wrecked my life. Three whole years I will never get back, because of you, and for that ... I will never, ever forgive you.

I will never, ever give you the pleasure of my pain again.

This is it.

You won't give up, though, I do know that. You'll keep taunting me, keep trying to find a way back into my life.

But I won't let you.

I'm beautiful, I'm strong. I'm a fighter, thanks to you.

And I'm proud of it.

There, I said it. Have that little token of gratitude, okay? Because you won't be getting any more.

I'm proud of what you did to me. It made me a better person. I wouldn't be standing here if I hadn't learned to fight you off.

But I did; because of you.

You started this and, in some way, you ended this.

You brought it on yourself.

You must have known our special relationship would have ended sometime, right? Either I die or I give you up.

I came so, so close to letting you win. I came so, so close to being another statistic, another stupid kid who fell prey to you.

But I didn't. I won this, and you said I wouldn't.

You were wrong, on so many levels.

And so was I, but I am finished with you, with this, now.

I'm not going to beg you to take me back into your twisted world. You can beg me, go right ahead, but I won't listen.

I will always hear you, that you made sure of, but I will never listen.

Not anymore.

I'm done with you.