If the past could talk it would speak a broken language.

It would be anxious.

It would shiver at night filled with the fright that almost killed it in those memories where the light had been silenced. Vanquished.

Broken like the shards of its mirror, it would mumble to walls and write on the stalls of every decrepit bathroom one word:


It remembers how many times the locked away gun got cocked.

When even its good dreams were pocked.

It remembers the feeling of disease without healing and sometimes it wonders,

"Why was my life worth stealing?"

Tears are its only friends, and even they eventually fall. Tears, its words, and the wall.


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