writing

The end. (a fictional work)

We existed in pulses, beating erratically in each other’s body. We converged in moments and disappeared in seconds.

 

An acidic use of the alphabet to make my derision clearer to you whom I loved not one second ago. But in what language shall I carve you out of my life? In how many languages do I forget you? Can I forget the taste of your lips in the summer or should I forgive your warmth to some other woman in some other winter landscape in a house in a room in a bed that is not mine.

We used to be and now we aren’t.

When I fractured and became us and my words spilled in a space that contained nothing but a silence swollen with sorrows, where were you? When sane became better with a prefix and my meaning changed and I started defining a word doctors shake their heads over, where were you? When I started crying and it started raining and I thought I was drowning, where were you?

But if this is the end then what lies beyond this end? If all I have left for me are endings then should I not stop here and give it all up? I have nothing. I am nothing. Nothing but this rainbow coloured confetti that makes a clown out of my pain: a silver screen gold popcorn prime time come watch my heart break party. Laugh too hard and laugh too loud kind of clown. My pain, chewing gum that never loses its flavour. A rizzlerazzledazzle kind of pain favoured by movie theaters and tissue-makers.

You know–

I let you go long before you left me because your love is a language I cannot learn to speak.

 

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