they won

around
and around this merry go round
we go,

past the houses,
past the people,

the blur
of the gravity
makes us trust everything
or nothing,

where
a knife
looks like a bridal gown,
and a bridal gown
feels like
blood on your back.

we are bound to die
sooner or later,
many times over
again and again.

you trust.
you are sure of this,
even as positive
as the fact
that this ride
will eventually end.

but
that one time you were wrong.

it's too late
and everything has been branded
on every inch of skin,
muscle,
and bone
that their knife penetrates.

they walk away,
leaving you prostrate
on the concrete floor,
bleeding that trust from you
in tears,
like it was only a game.