A cold knife
Stabbed through the back
By the most trusted friend.

It slices neatly through the skin,
Slipping gently between the ribs,
For a moment
It will not hurt.

The real pain
Is the twist of the knife
By its owner’s cruel hand
As it cuts, tears, destroys.

A severe yank, tug, pull,
It grates against bone
Until it is freed,
And the act
Is complete.

While you stand there,
Bleeding from the wound,
You will wonder why,
You ever trusted that friend
In the first place.

Simply remember:
Betrayal could not exist
Without trust.

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