My wife used to have trouble sleeping.
To help her, I'd sing a lullaby I made just for her—soft, simple, something only we knew.
Now I lie here, a knife in my chest,her eyes staring down at my cold, dying body.
And I hum it to myself.
While looking at her beautiful face.
She could kill me a hundred different ways.
Each more Painful than the last.
It wouldn't matter.
I will love her—even if it kills me.
Even if it kills her.