He never let me go, which
was sweet but over time I hated him for it. I died young, we hadn’t been
married long and he’d been inconsolable. So there I was, living on within him.
And others too, my friends kept me with them for a while, but the day the pain
becomes bearable is the day you truly die to them, and they had let me go. He
hadn’t. Which made me love him all the more.
For a while.
He loves me so much, I
thought, watching him grieve for a year, then two. My parents had died when I
was young, so I had them in me, in him, so I was not one to judge.
I grew tired, I was dead, ready
for peace. But he kept on pining, all the while sleeping with women he didn’t
love. Forcing me to look on, my parents watching me. After some years I realised,
if he died alone, we would all be free. But his sister and her kids loved him,
and so it went.
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