Don't look back. Emancipate. As long as the snail took to complete it's short trail, I have redundantly repeated these words to you. I think back on times that I wanted to sit in the corner of the room, surrounded by glistening broken glass, teasing myself with the sharp edges, under an interrogation light, screaming nothing into the fading darkness. The times I wanted to tear apart the skin of my thighs and bleed hoping everything would flow out and clot into little scabs, that I can one day just peel away.

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Today, we are older. Today, we can look at the scars that have been left behind by the past. The reason why I always carry my jacket, you, your umbrella. As the sun rose and dipped into the horizon like a cookie in coffee everyday, everything took on a new shape. Like the pieces that could no longer hold on, softened by the constant beating of monotony, we grew apart. But yet today, I feel that we came closer. The older I grew, I climbed up the ladder. The older you grew, you climbed down towards me.

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Now, you're in the way. You have been many times before and I have just sat in the illusions of my interrogation light, silently pushing the virus to another part of my body, delaying the wounds, the blood and the scab. Today, I know I will never see the scab because I will never bleed. As the needle was poked around into my vein, the nurse tipped the syringe here and there. She twisted it around from side to side like she was trying to wear a earring after years of nothing.

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Out came no blood. In the sphere of my life, there are many craters, empty, rotting, green with fungus. Like a vial of life had been drawn out every now and then. I think back to some years that just went by in silent agony. Of years that I will never get back. Today, you say I don't love you or respect you any more. Today, you say your life isn't here but down in Mexico. And as you drive into the horizon of Sunny Mexico, I watch solemnly as my lost adolescence disappears into the bundles of baggage you took with you.