You left me a letter on my porch, crisp white paper and ebony ink. “Run away with me,” you began. I figured it was a metaphor. You called me several names, some nice, some ambiguous. I took them as compliments and kept the letter by my bed.

You left a rose for me, tied with a black ribbon. You didn’t bother to take off the thorns. I held the flower gingerly and left it on my windowsill until its petals curled, the edges browned and furled in on themselves.

You found me, once, in the corridor alone. Your fingers, long and pale, encircled my wrists like a cuff. I tried to smile, but I looked into your eyes and thought of wolves.

You held me, harshly, by the forearms; your eyes were closed. Your forehead pressed against mine, and then your teeth were on my lips. I broke away, and you reached out to touch my hair and call me beautiful.

You ignored me for a week; I tried to catch your eye, but your head was always cast down. Your teeth worried your lip the way they had torn into mine. I brought a hand up to my mouth, and you caught my gaze and tilted your head.

You slid another letter under my door. This one felt heavier. There was a stamp this time, but no return address. I tossed it into the fireplace and salvaged it just a moment later.

You gave me more roses, this time in the shape of a hand mark on my cheek. “I’m sorry,” you choked. “It’s all your fault, you know.”

You came into my dream one night, grinning like a predator. I woke up screaming and tried to choke myself with my sheets. My head was cold and clammy, and I realized your eyes were gray.

You drove past my house one day when I was washing dishes. I let the plate I was holding clatter into the sudsy sink. I grabbed a cup to throw at you, but you were gone by the time the glass shattered on the asphalt.

You called me that night and stayed silent on the line for seventeen minutes before I hung up.

You smirked at my funeral, and chuckled as you dropped a handful of dirt onto my grave.