If you were to find yourself so inclined to dive into that mirror, you would likely find me halfway through that diamond maelstrom, regarding you with disdain from some reflective abode – perhaps a corner of shattered glass, an edge, a wink of light among thousands.

That’s what you want, and you know it – a sideways, uncoupled somersault through enough razor edges to render your overeaten flesh to soup. It’s not your body you hate, and let’s get something straight, I don’t hate my body either. This is where we pull apart you and I – me being the voyeur you so desperately want, not touching you, but murdering you with intentions from a far. For all your lovely prose, your unshackled sexual power, your misplaced sense of godhood, I am the woman who can see the string guiding you up that tall, tall ladder in the sky. I alone know the teeth on the wind – biting and cold at the top of your hip new disaster dive of death.

All of this is a ruse.

All of you is a game.

It won’t be until you are halfway to impact that you’ll realize I’ve emptied the pool.

When you cannot see your reflection before your death, you will know you’ve wasted your life on primitive excretions.

You are a man who was always meant to fall to your death.

And this is why I hold my head up so high – not because I am a proud wife, but because I am hoping to see the black of your eyes as you fall, without reflection of the reflection below, without purpose.

I’ll be touched by the profundity of your last fleeting moments, in awe of the passing of so massive an ego, but it will be the last time you touch me.