She hates the irony, and the pain is too much.
She cannot see his face;
He has advanced from behind.
But she does not need too,
She knows his face too well.
His couteau digs deeper into her soft cheek.
He is carving a heart;
Mocking her obsession of him.
He whispers something incoherent to her.
She wishes she had listened closer.
He caresses her unmarked cheek with his gloved hand.
She closes her eyes,
Half wishing it was over,
Half wishing it would never end.
-Emily Rose-
7-20-10
