January 27th, Year of the Corpse

The situation gets desperate, enemy lines are drawn, weapons are readied. I wait for the sound of slight movement. I am prepared to react. My vision is keen, looking out everywhere.

Robert has professed his love for me. My patience with him was spent ten arguments ago. I will not allow history to rewind itself, only so that page five can copy itself onto page three hundred and five. There will be no silent abnegation, ordered by his comfort. I will not lack, so that he is at peace. A peace he never afforded me.

Hades asks for answers, and I am empty of those. Upon close examination, I see the mask he has always worn. The paint has begun to chip away, revealing a cheap plastic. He was not the king of demons. He wasn’t even a squire.

Tonight, as he cried for me to need him, I could not bring myself to care. I found myself bothered by a breathy whimpering, and a sobbing half-articulated yearning.
My kisses, he moaned. My arms around him, he complained. My heart still beats in unison with his own, he exclaimed.

The person he knew was, left me naked on a bed, reaching out to feel him one final time. That woman expired in the wait.

In his weakness, I gain strength. I have had enough of feeling imprisoned by the bitterness of a shattered relationship.

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January 27th, Year of the Corpse

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