Peculiar.

And for the sake of just being, here I am. Closed off, gated. Swallow your tongue and let the pressure of your luckless words build. And strange as it may seem, you wouldn’t believe it’s quick, but not painless. And it will no longer feel temporary. Just let it sink in.

But tell me, could you hear my heart breaking while you grasped its stem and slowly pulled its petals? If you listen close enough, it’ll tell you a story in its slow, exhausted brag. A string of words, you can wear around your neck. And if you carry anything with you, I hope it be that sound. And I hope it gets louder, with every blink of your eyes. And I hope it becomes deafening. And you grow mad with reason. And I hope it gets brighter with every breathe you inhale. And I hope it becomes blinding. And you, my deaf and dumb audience, picking flowers for your own pleasure.

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