Murder

There is something cruel about the way he looks at me.  I think he is searching for that piece of me still willing to believe him. He won’t find it. And this will be my fault.

When he lies,  he kills a piece of me. It won’t be restored.  And he never even says goodbye.

As in death, these pieces don’t lie restfully. They churn and haunt and destroy. I question who I am and this doesn’t seem fair.  He begs me to not tell. He murders and begs to run free.

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