I yawned. It smelt of bleach. A shot of Clorox. Pre-caution to sanitize the words,
That were sure to stain the decency of consistent language.
Though my stomach burned with agony. I held a tongue on repeat memories.
'The flesh is weak.' I thought.
Not before asking:
“That of freedom? What do you think of such a lustful need? ”
A tongue roll. Coupled with fingers crossed. Onto a punch that collided with the plastic door.
What shook the nails from the coffin? Why not the bleach. But the answer.
“Don't waste time on thinking of freedom.
Or you risk being a slave to thoughts.”
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