How gently I placed your now bluish face on top of your favorite pillow,
Kept in mind the fact that you had loved falling asleep on your tummy,
And how I thoroughly cleaned out the blood filled dirt from every pore on your skin,
Or how only nineteen days before that I had completely taken your breath away,
Baring down on your throat after our fight about who does the grocery shopping,
And the short amount of time it took to see the life in your dark, glossy eyes die,
Or how often I had threatened to leave you so that you’d have to grow old alone,
No one knows.
No one knows about our inevitable demise.
No one even says my name.
No one knows but you.
They haven’t heard my exaggerated tales of abuse,
My cunning lies to keep my devious persona satisfied,
The stories I told you in the dark while we linked together under the sheets,
Those songs we used to sing along to in the car while driving across the bridge,
My incessant whines that begged you to pay me your full attention,
The heavy moans, deep sighs, puerile cries, and all of our raillery.
Still, no one knows.
No one knows that the fault is of my own.
No one but you.