If we were to meet again, I would tell you with my eyes how even when trapped in that illusionary projection of love, I was able to see the dagger you were pointing at my throat, but failed to notice your other hand quietly moving towards the knife hanging behind my back.

If we were to meet again, I would cover my ears before you have the chance to let those sickening words printed on your tongue unfold—‘I’m sorry, I was a coward,’–those empty shells you will offer me as a prize of survival, with the still crimson coloured scars of my heart glaring back at the stirring guilt inside of your chest.

If we were to meet again, I would shred your pride to pieces with my bare hands before you can attempt to soil mine with your self-rigorously prepared excuses while you shed those tears not for me, but for your own ego whom had failed to gain back the respect of a walking corpse you killed. The woman who had melted the icy walls surrounding the remains of her withering life, only to have you crush it with your own palms.

Notes.

Prompt/inspiration: anger.