Starting the ascent on the stairs of defeat only knowing that at the top I'll be heaved back down to greet the same man who shoved me. Who once loved me but now laughs at my demise and despises my heart in his hands. And tries as he can to break it, cut it, change it to fit his standards. He forgets his manners and how to treat a lady's heart that's now stone cold, ready to implode from rejection. Imperfection. The mere mention of his name sends me up the stairs again to shake the hand of my dictator.