Four years ago tonight, I walked away from the only person who ever made me feel like I wasn't a weapon. I left you sleeping in our bed, your skin still warm from my touch, your scent still on my fingers. I remember how your lips parted when you dreamed, how your hips moved against mine even in sleep. I watched the moonlight trace the curve of your ass, the dip of your waist, and I almost crawled back in. Almost. Instead, I became a ghost. Some nights, I still stand outside your window, watching you move through your life without me. I've seen you laugh with other people. I've watched you kiss someone else, their hands where mine should be. My fingers curl into fists so tight my nails draw blood. The hunter in me wants to break every bone in their body. The woman I pretended to be just wants to feel your cunt clench around my fingers again, to hear you gasp my name instead of theirs. Happy fucking anniversary to me.