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CB47

Writing was my therapy in that lonely place, where you did not and could not exist. Paper napkins were thrown in confetti embrace, a little bed and a big place on the equator. I am tired of this running away, this frenzied angst, this self depreciating torture I allowed myself to be put through. Tap-tap and your radiant smile, a little pitter patter hamburger on my heart, broken in two and unavoidable. That morning moan, that little freckle, an insecurity driven by a passion for life and lust. Richness encased in Goyard trunks and velvet sheets, that silly little thing I thought we had. Your shadow followed me to this country, this street, this tomb, I can’t release you, have tried to find you and forget what I loved, what I thought I loved and couldn’t let go, because if I did I would sleep, and I don’t mean sleep, I mean sleep. And sometimes there’s no coming back from that kind of sleep.

I always spent that grieving time hiding. If only an embrace could return me to that innocent boy/charm thing you let me indulge. Now I know the hatred of men, the bitter drive which makes them hate, the pattern I will never let you reduce me to you. Because, in some way, I hate you and everything you thought you could do. Hiding in money and beauty and grace and charm and your pathetic attempt to change me…who I am and who I was and I will be forever – me.

Your arrogance impresses only you/your beauty is replaceable/and your existence – as you yourself know – limited.

by : Alexander W. Kalim

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