It's a lifetime of hope and hope lost, is it not? It's a pile of days, an unending stream of waiting for it all to begin, when truly some of it is already over and you forgot to enjoy it. Spring leaps into my chest like a young child, unafraid and unconcerned with your scars, but my lungs are still full of soot, I am not ready for joy, not yet. There are steps to this dance I never quite figured out, and it makes my palms sweaty still to try. The rhythm seems perpetually someone else's.
I do not remember a time when I
was not broken.
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