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Raised by Trauma
My body is an ear.
Absorbing whispers meant for others' mouths that only close to wait to shove out more sound.
In other directions.
Towards another mouth.
Mouths who vomit sounds for the sake of sound.
Mouths that speak without a plan for other mouths.
Earless mouths.
Blathering on until they forget why they opened.
Holes from which echoed flatulence reverberates.
Unmeant for perception.
Meant only for sensation.
To be and for others' not to be.
As if,
As if another,
As if others would dare.
They; the non-playable characters would dare,
To perceive your sensation and respond.
Deaf to the tones you cannot even sing,
Despite the fact that you think you're a Lyrebird.
The only joy you provide is the thought that you think yourself other than a birdless liar; thinking it can think.
Your soul will rot in the brine you drown it in; nothing with a hint of you.
Copyright ©
B.J. Fitz
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