A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

A war of attrition.  Why am I surprised
that you don’t fight fairly? You never did.
I was not just ambushed. I was lured,
baited, trapped, and by the flicker
of flaming butane, told that this,
this was what I wanted, this was what I needed,
this (you) was the best I could ever hope for
and I should be grateful (and I was).
(I did not know better, but now I do.) I vowed
to love you for better or for worse, till death 
and I did.  I loved you, with every fibre of my being
until each of them frayed and the fabric was more hole than blanket.
I loved you
by continuing to pour out the libation of my best
in vain attempts to assuage your worst.  I loved you
while you killed my light, suffocated it, 
ground it to ash with the heel of your fancy boots.
Have I not upheld my vow? Trickery, always trickery, 
you archfey patron who minces words and salts them
with double meaning, and douses them in a sauce
hot with lies and manipulation that overshadow any underlying flavour.
What taste is there when all is fire?
I loved you, and you slaughtered that love
with apathetic contempt. It is dead,
so where is my freedom?  Why is its soul still a ghost
tethered to your cruelty?