We had a complicated relationship.

It was easy at first.

I was cold. He handed me his jacket.

I was alone. He kept me company.

I was scared. He made me hot chocolate and forced me to watch dusty marlon brando tapes.

But when he left to go do his worldly things of becoming a superstar, it wasn't so easy anymore.

We didn't call. We didn't talk. It was all a real hush hush thing because mainly there was no longer anything to be hush hush about. He went on to do his godly things and I went back to the city.

It was so different there. My ears had become sensitive to every noise and I could hear voices, coming from me in all different directions. But still, it was all okay with me though because I was used to all the commotion swarming around. I sat down when I got home and stared at the yellow brown wallpaper in my apartment and the burnt out stove that still stood awkwardly in my kitchen. At night the people would come out and yell things into the early morning and I'd just lie in bed staring at my ugly brown wallpaper. I think I was so used to it that my eyes reeled everytime I stared at them for too long. Then came the insomnia. I haven't slept in days.

On lonely, rainy days, I'd let myself look at the pictures.

They weren't really pretty ones, just ones that were taken a long time ago with smudged edges. I didn't usually smile when I saw them, so in my mind I pretended to. I threw some across the room and they slit my fingers when I tossed them aside. Shades of crimson started to pour from my finger and I let it drip onto another photo. I cursed myself when I realized this was the only pretty one I had of him and now it was all covered with my blood.

Forgive me, justin timberlake, but this is the color of my devotion.