She ends my world with a kiss and sigh. “Did you come here to break up with me?” she asks, as her blade slides into my neck, into the space just under my chin. 

“I came because I still had a key,” I explained, feeling the first few drops of blood fighting their way around the blade to go scuttling down my skin. Dripping droplets of blood, sliding down my skin. “And it was cold outside.”

I don’t want to get all Freudian on you here, but there’s something about her that reminds me of my mother; I think it’s the eyes. I think it’s the disappointment in her eyes. 

I lay on her bed and she lays on me and her neck lays just three inches into my throat. I can still, just barely, choke air down into my lungs. At the edge of the cut, blood bubbles and froths, my oxygen attempting to sneak back out through the hole she’s put in me.

“Well,” she says, and she flinches slightly, spreading me wide open, “I’m glad we could have this little conversation anyway.”

And you know what? I think she really is, too.