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It's hard to admit being wrong. Sometimes people pursue an ideal of perfection all life long and suddenly something changes: nothing in this world is perfect; nothing goes faultlessly, less than ever my way of living does. I've learnt it lately, when "me and you" became a toxic "us": don't reproach me for my mistake, please!
Everything began when you arrived in my life. Just yesterday, it seems; maybe, it is. Time it's not always a simple line: it flees; it's brought on a streak of bad colours to rouse; it doodles on existence house, on its floor, its ceiling, its walls; it fills the air with contradictions; it puts a huge marble deceit into the halls.
There's nothing left to do.
And now, I'm here, in front of you, the dullest image of you I preserve in my mind, just to ask you to be so gentle and kind to rest, to listen to me for a short time; I'm here just to let you know all the feelings locked into the innermost part of my soul, aware, sensible and sole. I'd like you to know all my confused thoughts, my trembling emotions, my hurt sensations, loss of forbearing, mercifulness and forgiving. They all are burning like that hell-fire, in which you left me alone, defenceless, until now: a woman mistreated, ignored, left to the others, a woman for hire.
I'm asking to myself if I could ever forgive you, if there was a way. I would do something, but ... how? It seems I've just lost any strength, any energy, any desire. And now?
I don't expect you to understand me, but I beg you to stay here for a while, cancelling your false smile and trying to read all my secret silent words, my desires, my fears, in the same way I've been trying to read your shut, pitiless and selfish lips for all these past long years.
Nothing else.
When you began to close your heart to me, to my desperate will of talking to you, to the false idea of seeing a man, not a mask, not someone who's futile, miserable, sham, nor someone whom nothing can be asked but fleeting moments of false love, I cried, I shouted all my helpless rage, my anger, my fury, my rant and rave, I fought against God, I begged it to be untrue.
What did I do to deserve to live in your indifference? What did I do?
Nevertheless I tried hard. I tried to admit you in my life, in my heart; but there weren't streets that could take you in my universe. If only I could understand it was a bitter presage of reverse, it was just a vain hope! It was a vain hope to look for you inside of me, deeply as it can be, 'cause the darkness you gave me was too dark, a never ending confirm we were always apart; and, believe me, it was able to kill! It was a vain hope to defend myself against your wicked will, against the obscure magic of your worst art, the art of giving me poisoned flowers every time, the art of humiliating with a smile, beyond any gentleness, any education line. It was a vain hope to struggle to reach you, 'cause my heart was bleeding too much, my hands were too weak and thinking of you was a desperate, fatal streak.
I thought I could find you, somewhere, 'cause I was doing my best, but my best wasn't good enough.
That's rough!
I lost my happiness, my energy, my time, I was afraid and so blind not to read the signs, not to realize that I was doing nothing but waiting on hand and foot to loose myself.
Now, I regret not having found the time to put you on the most unreachable life-shelf, in a very distant place, into the eldest, forgotten box of memories, full of all the past tears I tore: far from my life, forever and more; far from your sick loving shore, full of cutting glasses hidden in the sand, of sharp rocks, dead fishes and, reflected on the sea, false sunny ways leading to the end; the end of life, of love, of happiness; the end of everything I need.
I should have learnt to see you indeed; I should have seen you for what you were: a silly stupid devil, a bearer of sadness and care.
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