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My event, my sorrow,

Despite all this time, there is more unsaid between us than said. And now, the only thing that remains between us are conversations that i do not want to take part in. It is the recipe for malaise. Muck that no one cleans up, that when left alone pollutes its surroundings, and in this case which has reached us? I am not a good enough person to hope that the suffering is only mine. Tell me, are you satisfied now that you have laid me down from you like a book you have finished the last chapter of?

I feel like an aching and exuding wound that refuses to heal, the first conscious wound and that with this attained consciousness has been cursed with the ability of realizing how disgusting it it truly is. And for that you become my contempt