I didn't like the way you talked about them,
like you would never get there,
or end up there,
like we all do,
in the end,
or just before the end,
and I couldn't listen to it anymore,
not because I was lazy or disinterested,
but because I was really fucking mad at you,
and I thought about all the times you must have touched the fissures of my skin,
and what you must have thought,
even if you didn't think it right away,
but I can't go back,
I don't have it in me,
it doesn't feel the same,
none of it
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