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Them

Stay quiet. Those blurry shadows at the end of the mind are getting restless. They have incubated for too long now and will soon awake and Iook for a form. Every thought you have is a feather to them, plucking each as they are born, putting themselves together with what they take. They care little for light or dark. Survival is what matters, growing on fear, feeding on a lifetime of leftovers. Love kills them.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2022




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