a human. being

Pity is for the moment of death, and the moments after. It changes when decay comes, with the creeping stench and the wriggling, munching scavengers.

Returning later, though, you will see a shape of clean bone, a few feathers, an inoffensive symbol of what once lived. Nothing to make you shudder.

It is clear then. But perhaps you find the analogy I have chosen for our dead affair rather gruesome – too unpleasant a comparison.

It is not accidental. In you I see maggots close to the surface. You are eaten up by self-pity, crawling with unlovable pathos.

If I were to touch you I should feel against my fingers fat, moist worm-skin. Do not ask me for charity now: go away until your bones are clean.