The crappy butterflies, the pink walls, the ugly lamps, the obnoxious painting, the broken kitchenware, the tacky cat sticker and cheesy flower pots. I hate them all. They all scream at me and tell me I’m just a guest, a passenger passing by. A temporary shadow in a place that belongs to her. The ex.
She marked her territory, she’s ever present, ever there with her smug smile. Every time I bump into that lamp, I hear her laugh. That witch-like laugh you hear in the movies. That bed, those sheets and curtains. The ex knows them better than I do. She selected them. I am in her space, designed according to her taste. I have slept, showered, made love, eaten, laughed and cried where she did.
And yet, it’s just objects, just a space. There is no one else here. She’s not laughing. She’s left this territory to occupy another one. The ex is an ex now. He’s here. I am here. We are here.
Let the lamp be just a lamp.
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