He waits

He is no less than your fatal flaw.

And you die a thousand little deaths at his hand.

(He slays you, this man. He slays you in his careless ways, every day).

Then he waits, once again, for your resurrection.


“He smiles sweetly, strokes my hair,
Says he misses me.
I would murder him right there,
But first I die.” 

Every Day A Little Death, Sondheim

Published by Eidyia

I am only three things for sure - an Atheist, a Feminist, and a Writer - one who obsesses over the grand themes of love, memory and connection.

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