Kill my lover.

If only I killed my lover before they killed the cells in my brain. 

Their analogical love dripped over my skin like the blood from my veins-what a shame.

Sometimes I think of them under me with a knife in my hand,

beautifully stabbing them. 

I remember the inflicted pain,

Sexual or not,

wanted or coerced; they were slaps across the face, punches on my ribs and concussions to my brain- truly I was too small to be given a chance to defend. 

If I kill him right in his bed I was hurt in,

all my bruises will fade and my blood will be restored by his. 

Instead of my red fluid on the sheets,

his will be flowing in a puddle next to the body of him.

Maybe in that moment I'll learn what true pleasure is, maybe even freedom.

If I kill my lover and dispose of his worthless body I'll keep it my little dirty secret.

Like I was his. 

I can only hope my next love won’t be like him because then my body count will be above one, and as society rules, 

That's unlovable behaviour by a woman- but killing the man who had a lopsided heart is perfectly fine.