i say. quietly. methodical rehearsed. and strange. from behind the locked bathroom door.


i whisper through tongues and grooves. where linoleum cracks at the base of my spine where i sit where i am by myself on the floor.

i don't want this to be like that time you chased me out of the house with a pen-knife.

do you hear?

i'm not ready for that sort of thing.


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