The notes and chords that you strummed across my heart strings have turned to flesh-eating arrows. The punctures go so deep that my blood slowly drips down my side. Welcome to my slow death.

The grenade you hold is a lie. There is no promise of a swift end when you pull the pin. You are a hunter whose aim only causes suffering. Luring me to your circle, and leaving me to die.

There is no sweet ecstasy of release.