There was a storm brewing along the mountain peaks as I made my way through the pass. The air was sweltering, unusually humid, pressing. The radio played songs from more ignorant times, but it kept coming and going in waves of static. I kept it on; sometimes silence is too encroaching.
It is too hard to say the words, sometimes. I spent most of the evening staring into the hardwood floors, trying to choose my steps wisely, biting my lip to keep calm. I imagine what finally came out stung unexpectedly, and I wish I didn't have to say it. He would not speak to me, after.
They ask why you are broken.
But you are too busy picking up the shards,
to not think the fault is yours.
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