Dead Love

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The epitaph on the grave she buried me goes like this: Here lies the control freak, self-absorbed SOB, egoistical commitment-phobe, snob, sloth sleazebag and a worthless excuse of masculinity.

Well, maybe I have exaggerated a bit, but the hyperbole is just the second edition of what actually she did (not) say before she walked out one me for a barely legal, over self-absorbed Jay-Z wannabe trapped and confused in the limbo of whether to be a man or forever a boy.
I guess now the only thing that we share is lifespans in futility alone, history on (un)fair(l)y tale  and big screen love written down tattered books of breakups history.

However, I can’t prefix whatever she used to be to me with ‘ex’. She’s still dear and close to me, and I hope she’d come back with tears in her eyes. I’d gloat for old times’ sake.

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Sex on the Beach

A month after breaking my heart alongside my virginity, the man responsible for the crime committed the same heinous act with my younger sister. We were living in Mombasa at the time, on a beach house at the very edge of the Indian Ocean overlooking its warm waters.

Visitors of Warmth

This night, Pope John XII the Young shagged me rhythmically as if having sex with an African was a mystical ecstasy. When he looked into my eyes, I wondered what it really felt to listen to people’s sins, and no one listened to yours. When he emptied his holy seed in me, he rolled onto his side panting. I almost called his personal doctor, afraid his heart was attacking him.

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