I find my own vocal cords cut and creased. The result of biting back a grindstone tongue. One hundred sharpened words snapped down with canine and incisor. I taste a trickle of poison weeping from the sores in my mind. A dozen bitter pustules filling my sinuses with a sickly syrup of spite. I swallow it through my lungs in great defensive gulps. It slides past the white and pink razorblade scars in my lungs, and congeals in my stomach into a perfect bitter sphere. An arbalest round chambered and ready.
You're welcome.
11:53 p.m. - 2015-04-14
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