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


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