First, you were my savior. The other kids laughed at me when I couldn't read or write. You pushed them into the dirt, laughing back, and read me tales until I learned the words. You were smarter and braver. Later, you were my love. Holding hands by the riverbed, I confessed. You broke my heart, fiery whirlwind you are. I forgave you. How could I not? At least you were honest with me. Now, what are you? A hollowed-out husk, burnt up by anger. There's nothing left of the woman I once held dear. In the end, I told you not to do it. But you never listen, do you?