Just like we did that night.
When we killed.
Together.

She looked at me and said
"I don't know if I can do this."
And I held her hand and squeezed and said
"Of course you can."
(Peter Jackson was right.)
The bloody red chocolate syrup
never stopped
after that.
Her hair shone a darker shade

and she cut it because she knew I liked it long. Bitch.