My wife used to have trouble sleeping.
To help her, I'd sing a lullaby I made just for her—soft, simple, something only we knew.

Now I lie here, a knife in my chest,her eyes staring down at my cold, dying body.

And I hum it to myself. 
While looking at her beautiful face.

She could kill me a hundred different ways.
Each more Painful than the last.

It wouldn't matter.

I will love her—even if it kills me.

Even if it kills her.