I suppose now I have to find out who I am. Test my metal, smelt it down to be hammered into what I shall be. I have to stop clutching my heart so tightly, stop expecting the blow to be struck.
But experience teaches more than hope. Hope can be a curse. Maybe Pandora didn't slam the lid down fast enough, whispers of it escaping and running through her fingers like rain.
Hermit. Loudmouth. Secret poet. Confirmed bachelorette. Shit-talker extraordinaire. Owner of a brain with sound synesthesia.
This is a free association brain barf journal. Read at your own risk. Or mine, rather.
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