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.