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My shoes are cold and harsh. Speaking in a series of unethical moments which I find repulsive.
You look at me sideways and think about the old wet rain that has drenched to shining night. Enveloped with a sense of belonging, but not here. Nostalgic. Allergic reaction to a symptom of fear and self loathing. Breathe he said, I look at him and he sees me. Terrible pain in the abdomen, bend over and aching with dread. The whip cracks the ice air, heavy breathing and lost friendships.
Sold a lie by a very charismatic man in a grey suit. Hair pristine, all lies. His smile, a lie. That is what it always is and what it always was. Freedom sold as a constraint. You lock away your mind to the other minor obsessions and keys cut in to shapes that no longer fit the lock. Please? There is something in there. Is it still human, or has is become a benign growth that no longer gives you nutrition. Bleeding you dry like the very sense of doubt that has left you on the bed, under the covers unable to break free of that sense of soft safety. The day looks harsh and old. Too derelict to be comforting to your own fingertips or open eyes.
Blink.
Write out all the things you have forgotten. Lift the hat from the banister, and jump in a circle of joyous dreamlike butter. The glass is stopping you from slipping. People walk by looking at you, framed in a window, laughing. Them not you. You are not them. Please
Stop. quicken your step as you hear the rain, but leave your own.
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