January 27th, Year 20

Every minute on the clock is mine. No longer do I have to identify someone’s feelings, and adjust mine accordingly. The world spins by my force, but I am past spent, and highly in debt. The days are for me to plan them, to see them out. An uncomfortable reality forced upon me.

There is no more yelling. Revenge is for books, fools, and politicians. My lips are still pulled back. My stance is still defensive. There is anger, hate, disgust. Somehow, the love still persists, feeding unreasonable hope.

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January 27th, Year 20

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