Kill me with a lollipop
Kill me with a lollipop. Push it through my heart, twist it, left, right, up and down. Forget about the blood and the sweet smell that the fusion between the plastic stick and my dead skin emanates. Do it harder, stab me as if you were a killer. Forget about my pain and the tears that cannot stop cleaning my face. This is not a murder. You are killing the dead.
The heart-shaped lollipop is on the floor, carrying pieces of my own heart. He’s looking at his hand bathed in blood, unaware of the absence of life. I’m sitting on the couch with a big fucking hole in my chest, feeling small pieces of candy with my fingerprints. I can breath life and death at the same time.
The intellectual masturbation that turned you into a murderer and the idyllic ideology that made me a victim are beyond us, alive in the realm of realism. How silly of us to think that we could transform them, how stupid of us to believe that there was a place for our souls.
You didn’t kill me. We both killed ourselves when we decided to have dreams. Like rebels, we took our words as guns and the paper sheet as the war zone. We didn’t know our enemy, but we didn’t care. We injured that paper sheet slowly, unafraid of being rejected. Little did we know that we were our own enemies.
Who will bury us now? The tragedy is gone; she is now allowed to write nonsense.