You captured my tear on the tip of your blade and plunged
the knife into my heart.
What hurt most I'm not sure. Whether it was the salty sting
of my tear on the open wound, or the searing pain of flesh
separating in places it should be joined, or was it the look
in your eyes as you killed me? The look that said you knew
exactly what you were doing... and just didn't care.

It's not that simple.
Nothing complicated ever is.

Life pours out of me like blood and I find myself wishing
you would catch it because...

It would be such a waste.

...even you having it, holding it, using it in ways it was
never intended for would be better than having it spilled,
spoiled, ruined on the ground.
You twist the knife and add to my pain, my misery. And why
not? You have full control of my body now... and with it my
soul. You have taken my heart and made it yours with a
simple deadly downward movement.

It's not that simple.
Nothing complicated ever is.

My mind is my own though... or maybe not. You wielded your
words like you do your dagger... convinced me to stay...
changed my mind. Is my mind my own?

The last of my life leaves me and I find myself wishing you
would catch it...

It would be such a waste.

...keep it, give it to someone who deserves it, because you
certainly don't.
And as the last of me prepares to leave...

...I wake.
You lay next to me, snoring gently. It's the only thing you
do gently.
Leave him.
It's not that simple.
Nothing complicated ever is.