I brace for the impact of a tongue bit in twain. The blood runs down my chin and turns into tiny black seeds. They bore into my teeth, and take root within the lining of my lungs. I catch my breath, and am greeted by the smell of almonds and copper.
Hydrochloric words come too easily. They couch in my jaw and sear my throat, as an asp. I spit out the stars of dissatisfaction only to burn holes in the concrete of my mind. I leave pockmark memories in my interpersonal sidewalk. Every day, my dance to avoid them grows more and more elaborate.
11:33 p.m. - 2015-01-27
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