Friday, July 24, 2015

In Pieces

With every word, he strips away another piece of me.

“I need to move on,” he says.

“Why? What did I do wrong?” I hate the pathetic desperation in my voice.

One more bit flutters to floor, lying among the scattered pieces of dignity and self-respect. Each speck will wither and die like the blackened rose petals around the vase on the coffee table. He bought those two weeks ago. Did he know then?

“I told you, it’s nothing you did. It’s me.”

“Christ, don’t use a line on me. At least be honest. You owe me that much.”

“I’m being honest.”

He edges toward the door, bag in hand. He’s been trying to leave for three hours. The five o’clock shadow at noon makes his face haggard, and those blue eyes that bring me to my knees shift from me to the door. He’s desperate, too—desperate to escape.

“Fuck you. Go ahead, leave.” I turn my back to him.

“Don’t act like that. You know it isn’t working.”

“No, I don’t. I gave you everything. You just want a new piece of ass.”

Not true, but I’ll say anything now. Anything to prolong the shallow last gasps.

“There’s no one else.” A tired sigh. The door knob squeaks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Another piece ripped off, baring the ugliest parts of me.

“The hell you didn’t. You never gave a shit about me.”

No response. I turn around, and he’s gone.

At least now I can cry.

Image courtesy of Victor Habbick at