Justin: Today I feel a lot less like a person. And more like a number on a page. A statistic typed up and thrown away. 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Everything I did, Everything I've done...
I can't see straight and you avert your eyes. I'll feel different by sunrise.
J: As the day approaches evening, your eyes are still fleeting.
Coursing through the rivers in my wrists, peeling paint but the walls just persist...
...to encroach around my neck and endure the next moments when I should be breathing, could be seeing, I'm still seeking answers in these ruins I helped create, monuments that I forsake.
Now this dust is caked beneath my ribs, taut flesh sleeps beneath my skin.
But I've been sleeping too, wading through these bodies, when I should be swimming, could be living, but I've been giving in to giving up, to folding in, as my hands safely approach no one, but I will look onward, keep my eyes locked straight ahead, bathe in the irises I'd previously fled because I have tasted life, while my father chews on death, can't I learn to enjoy what he must start to ingest?
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