Betrayal


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,
White-faced,
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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