You smell like his sweat again.

As soon as I realize this my body alights with the pain of my heart, as though I've been set aflame. It was that one-of-a-kind sensation of sickening despair.

You smile at me, sweet and sadistic at the same time. Do you take joy in the hurt I bear because of your selfish desires?

When the door slips shut behind you and you move closer to me and you place your filthy, soft hand on my cheek my heart stammers to life again. Not because of your musky cologne or that predatory smirk masking your face, but because I know where that hand has been.

However, my eyes are closed before I know it and our lips are sealed together in a sinful kiss. Despite myself, I continue to let you poison me—as it is an intoxicating wonder.

My thin arms find themselves wrapping around your neck in a silent invitation, though I do not recall consenting to the action.

Eternity passes by within the span of a few seconds and then we are separated once more, your mouth moving on to bigger, better things.

I'm not surprised to find that your lips tasted of alcohol and semen.

Cognition evades me as I find myself pinned to the mattress of our cheap bed, which squeaks in protest beneath our combined weight.

Skin is bared within the minute and I cannot tell whose scalding flesh belongs where and what part of me is not a part of you. My mind is a horrid mess of pleasure and intense storms of jealousy as I idly wonder what position you used with him. Like our flesh, indecent sounds blur and echo in the small confines of the messy bedroom, joined in an animalistic ceremony of lust.

As you finish inside of me and I lay already spent, my mind is finally able to sharpen; in turn the ache of my soul increases with every gasping breath you take pulling out of me.

You are sick, and you have poisoned me. Now I am just as vile, and putrid, and ugly.

You remove yourself with that same knowing smirk. You head toward the unclosed door, giving me a final glance—is that regret I see?—before leaving me alone to my thoughts.

It's the last thing I need. As if I don't bleed enough.

I slowly sit, by whole body sore inside and out. Staring down at the mess left upon the bed disgusts me even further, yet I have no intention of moving.

Inklings of a past time drift through my head.

They're happy memories—peaceful, and safe, and full of certainty. I am surprised for a moment when I remember that I actually used to believe you loved me. It seemed so real then. Was that truly only a few months ago...? The impossibility of it hits me anew, like a harsh slap to the face.

Inevitably, the tears arrive—tears I gave up fighting long ago. My sobs are not quiet, or gentle, or in any way as feminine as my outer appearance.

They are body-racking, throat-scratching sobs, and so I hold myself.

I cry harder at the reality that you must have heard me, that you must have known my tears would come, and yet you left me alone like this.

I think back and I can't believe I used to trust you with my life. What a crazy notion.

And again the inevitable, for it was a mere routine to you, and I.

Questions bombarding me from left and right, so many of them, albeit they were nothing new.

'How could you?' and 'I thought you loved me!' and 'What happened to the man I fell in love with?'

Often followed by... 'What did I do wrong?' and 'What does he have that I don't?'

They were ceaseless, penetrating my frail heart like so many times before.

Until... it struck me as odd.

A new one wormed its way into my conscience. The thought halted my tears with finality, and I whispered the question aloud, as if the delicate thought was unreal and fragile.

"What would you do if I left you forever...?"

I sat still for a few moments, letting the idea marinate thoroughly.

Could I cause you a pain even a fraction of my own? Would it hurt you at all? Surely it must...

And would I regret it?

Well, the dead cannot regret.

Wiping my face roughly of its tear stains, I stood, determination shining in my dark eyes.

You would pay for what you've done. You would suffer.

You would feel the guilt. I would be sure of that.