It drips from my eyes, down my cheeks, collecting across the lines of my jaw to drip off and onto my chest, to join the rivers that flow there from around what’s been still been buried.

When you placed it there you were not yourself- screaming and crying, your aim was off. My arms were wide open, ready to embrace, when you made your move.

The steel felt cool- I barely felt it slip past my ribs.

I gasped when it touched my lung. Coughing now. Looking down at you.

Your hand was still on the hilt. Your eyes were closed, tears ran down your face, hot crimson over your fingers.

Then came the twist, an angry movement of the wrist. Nicked an artery.


It drips from behind me. Leaves trails on the ground, from the bedroom, to the kitchen, to the living room. Hot sticky puddles on the seat in front of my computer. Clear to see.

They tell me not to take it out on myself. To leave it alone, let time heal it.

If you can pull it out of me then you’ll win my kingdom. But there is not much left.

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