At the age of twenty, I cut him off from my body like peeling off the shell of a shrimp. His eyes looked at me, gluing me to him with his gaze, almost cruel and barbaric, smashing me in front of him.
Why do we have to separate? I asked him after finally getting admitted to a city.
He shook his head and said I don't know either.
In fact, there was no reason for this, but it was like a capital crime, nailing me to the spot. We have violated too many of our original intentions. I heard his cry, plaintive and melancholy, using his emotions and my emotions, his tears and my tears to saw each other in half.
He said we all make mistakes.
His breathing was very light, fragile and slow, and his hot skin was almost close to mine, face to face, chest to chest, breath to breath.
I said no, maybe none of us were wrong.
We ended up lying on the same bed, like two dead butterflies.
Purpose: youth pain literature
