Madrid is Melancholy

Madrid is Melancholy
A Spaceship on Rocky Ground

Thursday, July 29


I hate you. 

I hate your flawed love. I hate your selfish decisions and all the unneeded crualties. Your mistakes and your miscommunications are forever scratched into my guts, and a poision is there, distilled from your absuses, killing each cell of me again and again. 

You never meant what you said, your words seldom matching your thoughts. And I hate you for that. Your deeds in front of me were only airbrushed magazine images, designed to fool me, to content me. 

Why? Because you didn't want to hurt me? You hurt me, you betrayed me.

I hate you because you were broken on arrival. Your apparent wholeness and freshness false, just shattered pieces of girl propped up by courage and style.

Beyond all, we should have been forever; you promised and inscribed it. So now, I guess, I hate you the most for using and discarding 10 years of my life. The best part of my 30s -- I'll never get back. And that is your fault. 

These words lie in truthful reveal, I push my fault away in pain, doubling on you even the part that should have been plain, that I ignored, thus becoming accomplice to those sorid few suspious actions 

I hate you, forever and always. I mean it even if you don't.

No comments:

PostPunk in Bathroom

PostPunk in Bathroom