It breaks, it breaks and tears away . . . . 

I've asked her 1,000 times if she's alright and I'm 
less and less convinced by her each reply of 'I'm 
fine'.
Swathed in pale bedside lamp light, she's never looked 
more beautiful or refined
I'm rolling over back on my back staring at the biege 
wall we painted once when things were different
She's turning her back to me and murmurs her 
'goodnights' to me lacklusterly
Clicks off the lamplight that ushers in swathed and 
depths of velveteen evening this night
I put my thin and withered arm and wrist over her deep 
and rhythmically breathing chest
I'm rolling over behind her, trying and wishing and 
hoping to be noticed, but she doesn't notice
She's stiff and resistant to my touch at which her skin 
withers and creeps and I retract my arm
And my heavy and laden eyelids drift shut and as they 
do I see me, not through my own eyes
In a 3rd person perspective, creeping into the kitchen 
and grabbing the breadknife tight in my right hand
Padding my way back up the stairs to where she's 
sleeping and momentarily kneeling beside her prostrate 
frame
Feeling nothing but the warm handle in my sweat slicked 
palm
All of a sudden I find that I'm driving the blade with 
an awful force fully into her forehead, where a 
sickening vermillion grin spreads
Where she used to frown in incomprehension at me
Begins spewing disgusting, ugly crimson upon the crisp 
white sheets she cleaned recently
She doesn't move a muscle becomes vague and fades away
And I'm left with the nothingness that usuall resides 
behind my eyelids as I drift off into unconsioucsness 

Since you started to tear us apart
I can only hope my fingernails leave sore and bleeding 
scratch marks

me but just recently he's quite simply been the last 
thing that I need
Why couldn't he just let me be and be quiet while we 
watch some mindless TV?
Grabbing at my hands and shoulders, fucking utterly 
suffocating me.
I don't mean to be mean so I don't say anything then he 
sits staring forlornly direction
Asking if I'm alright to which I reply I'm fine,  which 
isn't enough of a response apparently
Then he asks me again and again and I'm doing my best 
not to lose my temper.
Said that I was going to bed just after 10 to get some 
small space and put things into perspective
Try to figure out if this slump we're in is permanent 
and when the rot first set in was when we should have 
left it.
But I love him deep down, there's once a time when I 
couldn't picture my life without him in it
But in these recent weeks it's seemed to me that those 
crazy, hazy days are over and finally finished.
Can't hide my irritation when he says he's coming to 
bed and I'm disgusted and surprised by the disgust
I feel by his pathetic expression of being wounded on 
his face and in his eyes.
Now I'm heavily breathing, pretending to be sleeping, 
he lols his fucking arm across me wihtout any 
consideration for the fact that I'm finally resting.
And I feel like I'm having to bite my tongue bloody to 
not wheels around and scream, 'get the fuck off me' 
I can't believe that I've let myself spend so many 
nights rigid in misery because I feel chained, 
restrained, pained by guilt and history 
And it sickens me that he'd rather be a part of this 
horrific heart ache than risk being on his own and 
lonely.
Nothing makes sense, except one thing and of that I'm 
sure
I don't want him to love me any more . . . . . .  . . .

And I'll be holding on until the skin breaks