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  • Loving you broke me wide open, like a shattered incandescent light bulb. My pain crept among the strewn wreckage, feeding itself, like a parasite. Loving you, I could not tell the difference between reality and the creations of my own heart. Such darkness enveloped me, so much so that I could only sit and wait for my pupils to dilate. And by the time I could see in that awful darkness, I had already begun to bleed, having cut myself on your barbed, razor-sharp thirst. I saw myself, taciturn, brooding, and waiting for exsanguination.

    I tried to love you better with my mind, which I had stuffed like a barn full of impotent ideas and logic. No amount of armour could save me, could close the wound out of which my life force flowed so freely. This type of death has no smell. The end has long come and gone.

    The sun has sliced through your thirst, severing it. And reviving me. I like to think that my wound has healed, leaving only a scar as its legacy, your legacy. At times I don’t feel so sure ~ down to the marrow of my bones, I still feel your absence. Perhaps that’s what this scar is ~ a physical membrane, an ugly container for my various perceptions of your absence?

    How could you convince yourself that what you present to people seems real to them? I wish for you a grand metamorphosis. Ah, but wishing doesn’t make it so, does it?
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