On refusing to lose [the plot]

I resolutely refuse to plague again my life 

with the sadness I felt so often and which 

so often you found 

advantageous.

I wrote for eight long years about 

the bad, both people and events.

And nobody read me, 

and nobody cared, 

and I lost a whole lovetime:

I lost the best of my life.

No longer do I want to see 

or dwell upon the

underwellie that kicks asses

up and beyond good feeling and 

other good being,

out.

And in those eight years, you had out of my soul

my pounds and euros of fleshed out

unrealities as

you destroyed my sense of my own

perspicacities; of my cities; of my

recentlies; and of my

latelies all unsound.

No more do I wish to photo

the unhappy and x-ray 

the wrong in carefully strong language: 

that poorly 

couched emotion.

My responsibility now is 

simply to enjoy myself: 

to have the fun you never allowed 

me: the fun you cowed out of me, and

hurt out of me and pained out of me and 

drained out of me

and insaned out of me, as

finally you did.

No.

No more shall you lead me to uglify the 

truth; no more shall you teach me to lose

the beauty of life in falsity and

mirror and 

smoke, and zero hope, and 

that smoking of burnt, and in 

the take and the retreat and

the repeat and the ultimate mad insist.

And if that really was your aim, then dearest 

C you have 

lost me [eternally]:

and not only have you lost the game you proposed, 

you have 

lost the plot,

all told.

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