G. O. A. T

Petal after petal finds the floor.
Red on a black background.
Then it’s one perfectly shaped tear after the other.
And strike three,
the sound of a shattering heart.
Love isn’t a game.
But he played it on her like the stadium-filled soccer game.
Dribbling her heart like a ball,
counting a goal each time she fell lower to his whims.
Each time she unlayered a piece of herself,
giving him more room to twist his dagger,
that was a score for him.
He was a pro at it.
Greatest Of All Time scrawled on his Wiki page of womanisers.
When the game became boring,
he strutted out,
mission accomplished.
He didn’t care for the fallen petals,
the tears falling on them,
the unprotected heart breaking behind his back.
He was done.
She had been stupid anyway.
Her mother taught her better,
hadn’t she?
I don’t think he understood love isn’t soccer,
you don’t follow laid-down rules.
There’s no formula of falling.

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