You're killing me. Softly, and slowly. But dying is not what hurts the most. No. What hurts is that I know you're enjoying every minute of it.

It's not enough that you laughed when I told you how I felt and then scoffed at my tears. It's not enough that I have to deal with the sly looks and snickers of those who know. And it's not enough that I have to look at you every day, knowing that my pain gives you pleasure.

No. It's not enough. I'm down. I'm beaten, but it's not enough. You have to poke and prod my wound. You have to make it worse.

Every time I see you, another girl is on your lap; another girl holds your hand; another girl kisses your cheek.

You know how much it hurts. You know that every time I see you, a piece of my heart breaks. Soon it will be nothing more than a mangled mess, but yet you continue. Did she really make you so bitter that you have to kill me to ease your own pain? Is she the reason you're so cold?

I doesn't matter, though. The reason doesn't matter. I'm not strong enough. Maybe if you would just leave, I could move on. Maybe, but probably not. I'm too far gone for that.

So I sit here in the kitchen with a silver knife. I run my finger over the smooth blade as a small smile plays on my lips. I'd always had a flare for the dramatic. A bullet to the head would be too easy. Besides, it's not my body I'm putting out of its misery. It's my heart. Mangled and broken, it can not be expected to beat much longer anyway.

I've always been a sore loser, so I'm going to end my pain before it kills me; before you win. They say all is fair in love and war, so I don't guess I'm cheating.

Smiling, I whisper, "I win."

A/N: I know that it's a bit dramatic. Okay, maybe more than a little, but what's life without a little bit of drama?

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