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The End

There it is
that typical piece of lacy fabric
sticking out
from between the couch cushions.
It catches my eye
and I can't help but stare.
That pretty, slinky garment
is the end.
I almost want to laugh
but when I try the basic command
I find I am unable to produce a sound
other than a broken, gasping breath.
I reach out towards the end,
allowing one tear to roll
down my cheek.
And I hold the lingerie that is not mine.
It smells nice
like the perfume he bought me
last month,
for our anniversary.
I look over at him,
he's oblivious to my discovery.
Drinking his coffee
chewing his cereal.
Innocent looking.
And yet, in the mean time
he's tormenting me.
More tears ready to stream
but I won't let them.
I look at him,
really look at him,
rubbing the soft fabric between my fingers
and imagining him doing the same to Her bare flesh.
He looks over
that smile I had always found charming
making my stomach churn.
That smile,
fading
as he notices
my facial expression
and the object I am holding.
That wall I have so frequently seen
in recent days,
slamming over his expression,
his eyes flashing
as his guard
goes up.
That process
now so recognizable.
If only I had mastered creating that
shield.
If I could block my heart from this pain,
this pressing feeling on my chest.
Suffocating.
I don't want him to know how much I'm hurting.
I can only remove myself from the situation.
For now.
I go to our bed
and then to the bathroom,
unable to enjoy the scent of your soap,
lingering in the sheets,
as I had only moments ago,
when I had awoken with a smile.
In the bathroom,
I can't resist
myself a moment
to break down.
Silent screams,
sobs,
escape my mouth.
My face twisted
in what must look like
pure despair.
My body shaking
and I hear you clanking dishes around
in the kitchen.
Must have the courtesy
to wash your own dishes,
while I am silently breaking apart.
The creaky front door,
that you were supposed to have fixed
months ago,
making its signature sound
as you leave for work.
Or I think you're leaving for work.
Standing up from the curled position
I had acquired
on the bathroom floor,
I look in the mirror.
I need to lean on the counter
exhausted.
My hair is a mess.
I guess I was tangling my fingers through it.
Pulling.
My eyes puffy, shiny, and red.
But dry.
I view this as a small victory
and I walk out of the bathroom,
pushing off from the counter
so as to gain leverage
for what I have to eventually face.
The end.
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