Death.  A fascinating art preformed by God, soldiers, and psychos.  What will happen if I dabble?

     I loved him in the beginning.  I loved him with such passion and devotion that it was more like a sickness.  I needed him like a hit of a drug.  When I was in his arms, my blood would boil, and my head would get light.  People would get “high on life”, I would get high on his love.  I thought that that was how love was supposed to be.  But it was like a fire.  Eventually it would die because it consumed everything around it.  Our love was like fire.

     Our love consumed my life—he consumed my life.  Like a raging ball of fire, it grew and grew.  Before my eyes, my family was consumed.  Soon my school and even my work was consumed. 
But I didn’t see it.  He made me feel too alive.  Because without him I wasn’t alive.  I was but a wandering spirit until I saw him…until I was with him.  He made me feel like I could fly.  And I flew…

     I flew straight into the bosom of death.  I realized one day when I awoke in the middle of a dirt strewn room.  Pizza boxes were jutting into my back.   A cockroach walked across my arm.  I lay there, in my own stink and filth.  I had no life and no focus, and I realized I didn’t care, I knew I didn’t care…but for the first time…I wondered why.

     It took a while.  It took a long while, but I eventually knew—realized why my life took an awful turn.  I knew all along, but I didn’t want to know.  I didn’t want it to be true.  I lost so much, and I denied it.  I was blinded by love, or what I believed the turning my stomach seemed to do in his presence was.  Yes, it was him all along...he was the reason why I became so numb...

     I knew then.  I knew that with the pizza boxes I threw out, and the used up can of Raid, that I had to throw him out.  But my bitterness wouldn’t leave me.  I couldn’t let him get away with the mess he left of me.  I needed him to feel an ounce of what he made me feel…of what was left of me in the aftermath of his affections.  I knew what I had to do.

     Pain…I needed him to feel pain.  Pain as quieting as the summer breeze.  Pain that you choke on every time you wake up during the night.  Pain as consuming as the fire that was his gift to me.  Pain that could only be brought about by death.

     Pain…pain that I know he will feel when I look into his eyes…when he realizes how his flower has blossomed with his care.  Blood…pain…when I see the reflection of stainless steel tools.  When I laugh in his face.  Red.  Blood.  Red.  Pain.

     I laugh, and I see the steel again…sharp and final…sharp and foreboding.  And I laugh some more.  Death…in its finality gives me peace.  And I laugh again.

     I laugh when I look into his eyes, and there is death in them.  Death when I tell him of my tenuous conviction, that I had to destroy our unborn child to see the pain in his eyes.  Death because there is only pain in mine.

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