you are crime.

she is punishment.

your body as an offering to the cold blade. to duty that upholds you. the crown that burdens you. sent you to the judas pit and not a single soul will know the violence it took for you to become this gentle nor the reason of the morbidity that crossed her eyes every time your tone changed.

she was seventeen for twenty eight years. by september she will be a ghost. she cannot seem to contort herself back into the shape of a dutiful child. she is coming unraveled. she is coming undone. she is coming cruel, a snake baring its fangs to its mother, hissing at the queen herself.

what shall you have her do when instead of a heart, this fear is beating in her body? should she fail you and write about you? should she profess your colors? should she stab you in the back and declare your deepest darkest secrets?

is she walking towards something she should be running away from? her hand outstretched for an undeserving? take your eyes off of her, can you? so she can leave, as she's far too ashamed to do it with you watching her, your heart as your eyes, with the heart like yours understanding everything for it contains everything.

she has good impulse control. that is why she isn't dead. also why she became a writer instead of a wife. she thinks before she acts. or more properly, she thinks instead of acts. a character flaw, not a virtue.

but you're killing her.

and you don't even know it.