The Fault

 

She fills my plate with more that I can eat, and because I cannot eat more than I can see, I am filled with emptiness.

She fills my drinking cup until it spills, so that when I touch it, my thirst is taken away by anger; why the destruction?

She fills my bed with coldness because of the lack of sensation, even though her body is naked,
naked next to me.

She dares to say it’s my fault, once and always; but when I first started, I first began with a caress and finished moist and tired; and thirsted for warm flesh.

The night as the day, without a word!

Why the self-destruction? How ugly can we be that we must destroy everything that has a memory of us?

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