‘I’m done, I think,’ she says,
then glances at him.
‘I’m tired of it. aren’t you?’

he is shaking his head
before he even replies:
no, no, no, no.

No, I’m not done,
Not anywhere near.
No, I could never be done
No, because I can’t get enough
Never would be able to,
of you, of this,
of you, with me.

‘besides,’ she goes on, harshly,
before he can speak:
delaying, denying, the protest, his grief,

‘it’s not like it’s going anywhere –
it’s not like either of us really cares;
like either of us would ever have left.’

she lets the words hang like poisoned darts,
and they turn, and bury themselves,
into his heart.

she doesn’t look back
keeps her head turned away.
she knows if she turns her resolve will break:
she’ll crumble, give in, give way.

‘but I love you,’ she hears him say,
his voice raw with astonished pain;
racking his lover’s memory
for some hint of this unhappy ending.

‘you only think you do,’
she answers,’but we both know the truth.
and I’m done, I’m tired of it;
tired of you.’

she must hit him as hard as she knows how
push him as far away as she knows how
make him hurt and bewildered,
and do it now:

if she doesn’t, asphyxiation
if she doesn’t, crucifixion
Already it’s spreading: an indelible stain.

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