i hate this part right here

Eyes of ocean.
Sink within them.
They tell a story of anguish, of love, of betrayal, of forgiveness.
Of mistrust, of impulsivity, of love again.
The waves bring whispers,
of unfair-ness.
I soar, yet my feet touches the water.
Blades, or perhaps icicles.
The only difference present was that the former stays, the latter vanishes after the murder.
You killed me with an icicle.
Perfect murder.

I hate it.
Repetition. Going round in bushes.
Hide and seek.
Dun tel me its part of the game.

I'm tired of it.