Charred, bloody resolve. Writing, like there’s something to prove. Clear, simple, plain. The shame and disdain of making a name. Etching lines with finger nails on concrete walls, fading before the thought concludes. A budding arm from an already crowded tree. A redundant thought squeezed between the branches of a fading breath.
"Move on." He screams. "Your time here is up. Evolve into your next sophomore year." Bludgeon the senses, bleed mediocrity, believe.
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