"The Many Ways You've Left Me (In My Head)" by Taylor Emily Copeland
 

I secretly sit in my living room
thinking of ways to unburden you
from an existence with me.

 

You've died several times in my head.

 

When you wrap me in your arms
in my small kitchen, rest your
heavy head on my pale shoulder,
I almost expect you to whisper
in my ear, "I'm leaving you."

 

When you are running late on 
your way home from work, I hold
my breath, picture a spectacular
wreck on a busy highway with you
twisted among plastic and metal
pieces, your last gasp long tossed
into the humid sky.

 

When my phone is silent at night,
no messages or voice mails left,
I wonder if you are a part of my
overactive imagination, that I've 
conjured you from paper or the
screen of my laptop, another face
without a voice.

 

The girl you've left me for is prettier,
will go to bars every weekend and drink,
is the one you want to breed over and over.

 

Or you've found that the only way you
will find contentment is to remove my 
shackles with a gun in your mouth,
my voice forever silenced in your head.