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I sat there crying as you left.
As then I asked my self ‘Fuck! Do men cry over this?’ I wondered why not? What on earth is so different about us that we aren’t ‘meant’ to ‘cry’ over women, over absofuckinglutely graceful women. Women who you have poured your heart and soul over. Why can’t we cry over women who make you feel like yourself, women who take their hands and run their magic all over your body. Whose name, just the sound of the beginning letters of her name turn you into fucking sand. Women who amaze you with their wit and words on a black board. Why can’t I cry for her? Why can’t I hold myself together when she decides she doesn’t want a fucking relationship. Why can’t I cry when I know that the days, weeks and months and maybe even bloody years won’t be the same as it was. Maybe it never will. Why can’t I cry when it hits me that I love her so much that I changed so many things in me that now I don’t know what to do with that change. She has gone. And I’m sitting there waiting for tears to come so that some of this pain may wash away as it rolls down burning deep crevices into my body. So deep that no amount of love could ever fill it up. That the scars may be seen so that no one tries to love me again.

May this pain gush out of me tearing me unrepairingly apart.

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