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Fuck it.

July 2016

Fuck the note you gave me when we first spoke

Fuck the road that was between us while waiting at traffic lights

Fuck the tremble in the wheel of your bike as you cycled past

Fuck rodriguez

Fuck Havana cultura

Fuck riding on the back of your bike during the summer

Fuck your white high tops

Fuck eating raspberries in the shed

Fuck fruit picking

Fuck kissing on a bench in margate

Fuck kneeling before me

Fuck the mondrian exhibition we ran through 5 minutes before closing

Fuck the walks we went on

Fuck polishing floors to slide on in our London home

Fuck berlin

Fuck guest slippers

Fuck paris

Fuck yo-yo bears

Fuck your ability to wear odd socks

Fuck your night gown/dressing gown/ night robe or whatever it is you hate that I call it 

Fuck falling asleep together during a picnic in Victoria park


Fuck patience

Fuck interrupting me in company

Fuck all the Sundays that were premature Mondays to you

Fuck convincing you of your freedom

Fuck 'you have no ambition'

Fuck being your sous chef when you only asked for company in the kitchen

Fuck never cooking together when we moved to london

Fuck crying in the louvre from feeling so trapped and overwhelmed

Fuck pulling me down with you

Fuck 'I don't want this to be the end'

Fuck having the same conversation in two weeks time

Fuck 'stagnating in that room like our relationship did no offence'

Fuck 'you're not the person I thought you were'

Fuck your disappointment when I told you I didn't enjoy swimming in Stoke newington

Fuck your self importance after getting your old job back

Fuck your sorry's

Fuck you.

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