last summer tasted like budding inclination, old blood, and other correlates of out-of-date hardship. i learnt, precisely that boys do not love--his hands everywhere, on my back, my arms, my cheeks--and it is all space and crevice, a bruise in the making. under his eyes, i am the object of ridicule.
late winter i counted to fifty in my head and found solace within the vertigo--fair point. boys are only discerning when they're not inebriated--saving this and that for a drug-induced nectarine, dubbing it "exuberance reinvented"; there are thumb print sized marks on my wrist, a reminder of him as an extension of myself.
early spring checks in and i am remorseless but i am not gratified. i am afraid for those who love but do not cling because out of all my former lovers only one made an effort and his efforts were practiced with passiveness and what persevered were counterproductive, feelings hardly intersecting. he did not try to love because loving takes time and the mindset is lethargic if you do not set forth.
so forth i set, often keyed in alternation, which is everlasting, as i mold into a ballad of defeat. it's probably more than what he wants to know, so i revisited the concept i abided to. this time, he says that there is silence that follows after disaster. well, the one i share for myself now, is defeaning, and it corrodes the named elements. love was just another term for childplay. and so, i feel that i do not love--or, that i do not want to.
it's the sense of being dropped and it's toxicology, unable to function--so, tell me i have issues because i most likely do. today, heartbreak is no longer a concern of mine, i've felt it enough for a lifetime.
e.u
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falsehood
غير روائيthere was always something kind to the way he composed religious imagery. it was like words hitting your heart.
