And so we were born with fibreglass eyes that scratch when we stare at unwilling minds. They inhale the crunch of our words and grind them down on their own broken teeth, swilling and spitting into the breeze to mix in with the blood and yesterday’s rain. And as that for the pain, it is best forgotten, though forever they fail to imagine the buried could ever have lived. But they feel our eyes scratch, and all is unspoken. The scrape is the best they can give. 


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