Alas, Cuckoo, Eat No Mulberries

[Dual male leads, first-person narration, a true story, completely real and unadapted]

When we first met, you asked what the English on my shoulder meant.

“Lonely white rabbits, darting east, glancing back,” I said.

It was a prophecy fulfilled.

Sadly, I couldn’t be as resolute and carefree as the poet, who, after “the feast of our childhood, when we laughed and talked so sweetly, and swore our vows without a thought that they might be broken,” could say, “I will think of it no more. Let it be over.”

All I could do was sigh, “Ah, turtledove, do not eat the mulberries.”

When I was young, I loved the poem only for its imagery. Its tragic beauty, revealing the whole through a glimpse, fascinated me.

Reading it again, I finally understood that every word was written in blood and every line brimmed with helplessness.

So many people long for love within this community.

Few know, though, that under the weight and strain of social pressure, most relationships in this community are fragile and messy.

I still can’t tell how much of your affection for me was sincere. I don’t know whether it was because you were a terrible person or because you had no choice.

Objectively speaking, by the time we reached the end, neither of us could be called good.

I won’t see you again.

As people online say, I’m still lost in those memories, but I don’t dare get close to you again. Before the sadness and affection come the overwhelming hurt and resentment I feel at the thought of seeing you.

I resist this world and never leave home, but I’m still fairly gentle with people. Honestly… I didn’t deserve this…