Found another one. There's a swear word in here, but I can't think of a word to replace it so I'm using astrisk's. Deal with it.

Oh, and mostly all of my poems are Untitled. Simply because of my immense lack of creativity.

The roses that you gave me
sit wilted on my shelf.
And everytime I see them
it makes me hate myself.
But then, why do I keep them,
distant memories of you.
Though there were mostly bad times,
of good, there were a few.
The times you held me closely,
the times you kissed my cheek,
the way you'd say you loved me,
it made my knees go weak.
But then, as if by magic, something transformed you,
from a loving, carefree person into something cold and cruel.
Oh, the way you'd hit me
it made me cry in pain.
How could you do this to me?
What did you have to gain?
And now the times I see you
I want to take the blade,
the one from which all of the scars upon me once were made,
I'd hold it tightly in my hand,
walk up to you, and say,
"Vengence is a little *****"
and then I'd make you pay.

© Jen Sellers/ronweasleylover

And yes, these poems are both about the same thing.