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You've poured cement down my veins. You've petrified my heart. Everything is sore and numb and dumb. My skin is boiling away in a convulsive allergy to dishonesty. My bones ran out of crimson love — the love I reserved for my eyes, my ears, my thoughts, and my instincts. In 42 minutes and uncountable sentences, you’ve torn me apart. I stitch myself back together. I'm now a copper-colored shape held together by cold, blue veins and the burning sweat of despair. I've lost everything in a fire and a flood.
Don’t material things tell a story? In the bed I carried upstairs. Near the plants I helped pot, making sure not to damage their fragile roots — just like you taught me. The walls I touched when I told you I felt the warmth of your love witnessing it all. All those things you assured me were ours.
You've doomed me to a thousand sleepless nights. A hundred snakes at every turn. Ten more shards of glass in my feet. One more attempt at achieving the nirvana people say my soul and body deserve.
You’d been stuck on a deserted island, and I sailed against all currents rescuing you. I became one with the ship and devoted it to you. The ship would sail for all eternity, towards the limits of what a human being can feel on Earth.
The waters were deep and treacherous, and I'd been running out of air trying to hold us afloat. My lungs turned blue. I pushed us for miles towards the rainy, fertile land you desired.
You landed and left me to rust in the water — dispersing into the meaningless fragments of an unrequited return.