He couldn't look at me,
because every time he did he felt this bile rising in his throat because of what he Did.
That's what he said and that's all he said and then he didn't say anymore.
And inside I wanted out, I beat at my inner organs until everything was bruised and bleeding and I hoped that I would bleed until I died, like in those uberchic hospital dramas where she saves the little boy's life and gets the guy, all in forty three television minutes.
I wanted to shout at him,
I've made mistakes too!
And I know how it feels to wake up beside the wrong person with very little memory of how you got there—I know, I know.
I would forgive you.
We all make mistakes, after all, right?
Oh, please don't tell me you've gone for good. I can't hardly stand myself, but the one thing I love about myself is you.
I want to rake my fingers against my chest until my heart is exposed, but I won't even stop there. I could clench my hand around it, make a fist, and shatter it.
But in my last dying bravado, I would probably sweep up the pieces and kiss you goodnight,