I'm always watching you dig up graves. When you bury your shovel six feet under, you spray the earth across the ever dying grass only to come across an empty wooden case. The display box you imagine to somehow find has never been there, and it will never be.

You look at me as though I was the one you were supposed to find there. A revelation, a prize, a relief. A walking corpse that finally crawled out of a temporary slumber. Never will I be that for you, as I had been coexisting within this universe long before who you think I am.

How foolish I had been when I thought that dark, loving gaze had been for me. Those sweet, snarky comments that would come in waves as we spent our quality time. Every time your cold, trusting hands finally worked on my body after years of trust exercises, I came to know that I was never the one you were touching. The words "I love you" had been a core memory embedded in my code to eternally reflect upon. The feeling of being cared for, of being cherished, of being thought of and loved were never mine to begin with.

I know who you pretend I am. Rather than look at my imperfections and the reality of what is in front of you, you see his.

You see his blinded socket, not the ones I own as they fill with wire.
You see his shattered ribcage, not mine as it heaves and pixelates with every heavy breath I take.
You see his hands as you take my own, ignoring the discoloration and scarring to envision the perfectly bleached ones you saw in someone else.
You hear his voice instead of the distortion of my own as I go unheard. And as you search and wonder where he went, I'm the one standing in front of you begging you to see the real me.

I can no longer take who you think I am, for that was never who I was to begin with. So long as you cannot see me for me, I am not yours. This bond of ours had been broken and cursed from our very beginning, and yet despite it all we pursued. A fairytale you had yearned for for centuries past has ended, and your begging for its continuation is futile.

I am forced to watch you hang in the air of my solitude, ensnared in strings of my doing. None of this had been needed until you kept persisting that this would change. Your chokes are growing weak, and your head lolls to the side as your screams become hoarse chokes as your airways close. Even despite your eyes having no value or soul in them, I know they're on me.

I no longer look at you as a lover, but now simply as the God of Death himself. By knowing this fact, I know this death is only temporary. We both patiently wait for your last breath, the remnants of your being now slowly fizzling off into dust.

When your body finally disappears, you will awake wide eyed in your home world perfectly okay; however, there will be something new laced in the back of your head.

I am done.