The truth, my darling, is that you never loved me. The truth, my little angel, is that you were too caught up in your own skin to hear the words pouring out of my ears. The truth, my love, is that you wanted the truth for yourself.
And now you have it.
The truth is, my dear, that I do not love you. I never did. I refuse to. The truth is that we will never know the truth in its entirety. The truth, my life my heart, is that we fell out of love the moment we rolled out of bed that first morning we spent together at your house, when your parents were away, and all I knew how to cook was scrambled eggs. The truth, my filthy little sexpot, is that the filth of our mouths only shows shades of the filth that lies content in our hearts. The truth, my raunchy ravishing princess, is that when I move inside you, I feel you move throughout me. The truth, my innocent child, is that I am so lost in you, that I wouldn't be able to see an exit through the webs we've spun ourselves inside each other, even if it were clearly marked with red neon signs, and they gave us little pathlights to let us know we're getting closer, that we're standing at the edge of salvation, and all we need is one. tiny. nigh-insignificant. little. shove.
The truth, my dear, is that the salt of our tears has kept us afloat all this time, and I for one am tired of flailing my arms in this puddle we're so adamant is an ocean.
The truth, goddamnit, is that I hate myself for loving you. The truth is that I cannot stop loving you. And I won't stop loving you. So I might as well leave for a while.
I left your ribbon tied to the front door. You need it more than I.
He decided to stay in his place, and spend the rest of the day skipping stones across the shimmering surface of the empty lake.