The truth is a knife you were holding behind your back and I didn't notice it until you had the blade buried six inches into my gut.
I think I was in shock at first. I felt no pain, no bleeding, only the emptiness of nothing. My stomach felt the blade first, before the rest of me did. I felt myself heaving, gasping for air from the weight of reality you had driven into me.
I don't know why I didn't pull the knife out and drive it back into you. Instead I only grabbed your hand and held it there, on the hilt of that knife, and I smiled at you.
"Does it hurt?" your eyes asked. I tried to reassure you that it didn't hurt one bit, but I was choking on my own blood. I'm not sure how convincing the lie sounded coming from my red stained lips.
You pretended not to see the blood. You smiled back and caressed my face. You told me you'd love to kiss me, that my lips had never looked so good as they did with the proof of your sin dripping from them.
I could only laugh and tell you to be careful about how your fingers entwined with mine on the hilt of that knife, because your thumb moving over my joints would make me fall in love.
My insides were screaming around the hilt of that knife, "But you're already in love." I pretended I didn't notice.
Instead I twisted the knife you had plunged into me deeper and deeper, until it was so twisted up with me there was no way to pull it out except to yank out all my insides with it.
Even after you let go of the hilt of your knife and pretended you had never stabbed me with your truth in the first place, I would sometimes twist the knife to remind myself it was still there. I would cough up a little more blood, each time screaming, "He doesn't love you. He'll never love you."
And you would only smile, before telling me my lips had never looked so beautiful as when they were covered in blood.
Sincerely,
xx
Blue
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