I wrote that you were willing to get beaten up for the hounded
that you were never a coward
you cannot figure out
the pleasure I felt
by lying

you’ve always been on the side of the forlorn
you’ve never jumped at the throat of a meek
you’ve never been promiscuous
you’ve never bitten your tongue while sniffing out opportunities
you fought like a gladiator against all the vanities and cruelties that skulked around you
that’s what I wrote
you cannot imagine the intensity of the orgasms that I had by reinventing you

I wrote that you were only ever courted by goddesses
that you were never a cabotin,
that only flames burst out of you

I told everyone that you were raving beautiful, that you incited cravings in hermits
this time it was actually the truth

The more I persevered in lie
the more I bled at the contact surface with reality
see? everyone has a dose of masochism

What was I supposed to do or say, what was I expected to write about?
the way you were defeated from the very first steps, or the way you lamented hysterically?
the way you learned how to spit?
or about the moment of grace when you began to cheat?
was I supposed to mention the indulgences you gave yourself lavishly?
the talents that greedily ate up your talent?
or the way one can build a career on a mountain of shit?

A long time ago, your smile could even cure the flu
Should I have written about the way you learned how to grin?

I had an orgasm when lying about you.
That’s about all I wanted to say.

And I also want you to know that at the end of the world lies my young heart waiting for you to return from the dead.


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