Murdering Me

I knew I was right about her, I knew by the way she looked at us. The way she looked at you, the way she looked at me. If you’d led her on, she’d have had little difficulty in murdering me; it was the way she killed me with those eyes, squinting above a molded smirk, cutting glances in between her breaths about her voices, and my words of love and encouragement. Even if she loved me, like you said she did, loved who I was – she wanted to take that, consume it and have what she thought I had, which was all that she had — you.

You didn’t see it for so long; she slept with your best friend, just to catch your attention, after all. You didn’t see it though, for what it was.

You didn’t see that she wanted to feed you drugs like pockets of love potion, in her mind at least – and perhaps of some effect on you. But you denied the gravity of her obsession. Until they told you, her family that is, that she talked about you all the time.

You told me she always asked about me, didn’t you wonder why? Did you not think she was evaluating the situation? Sure, some ask out of sincerity, but you have to look at the bigger picture, and how the pieces fit.

You didn’t see, until she whispered in your ear. Now I’m gone, and she’s taking more confident aim.

I know you think it’s hell, but I really can’t help you; I hope you do transcend your habits and escape the purgatory you say you’re in.

I really do. 

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