Boring
And it became so each night. All the others seemed to blend, so put together; she was cheaply made. Sewn haphazardly. Meanwhile, the lesbian couple still came through drive-thru every night and complained, and she still left her shoes in the living room for her mom to pick up. And everything remains.
But time effected her much like it does a child's doll; every interaction undid a stitch, ripped a little. They withstood finely, but she...and they notice.
Eventually, everything falls apart.
She did on a Tuesday.
And I'm here to tell her kids the story this way so they can understand. But I don't.
Meanwhile, I wait for her to come home. Every day is agony to me, she breaks my heart from a photograph in a popcicle stick frame every time I open the refrigerator door. I have these scenerios, see, of how I'll greet her; she's so happy. But I have questions she won't answer. Every time I ask, I undo a stitch.
So I'm packing. And I'm letting the fuck go. Because she won't return phone calls and I'm loving my tormentor with every fucking wrenching heartbreaking message I leave with the nurse. Because she's killing me as she kills herself. I hope she stays asleep. I hope she never realizes I'm gone.
And I leave her smile on the fridge for her. And that's how I'll remember her each morning I live.