she liked the way it felt. let it rot in the pit of her stomach and seep out her fingertips. dry like blood on the backs of her hands. on the good days it looked like it would go away, dry out, move on but on the bad days it set up camp and told the clouds not to clear. in the spirit of the season someone told her to string all her problems out on the line and let the sun out shine them. but with no change comes no words and with no words there was no world, so she sat on the curb and waited for someone to pass that could force the syllables out of her gut and drag them across this tattered timeline. there is no remedy for a thing she doesn’t want to fix same way there are no answers to questions you refuse to ask. if the tarot was right and the three of swords was what she was in for, there would soon be plenty more where all this came from. He said betrayal was the breaking of ranks. and she wrote it down so she could recognize every time it took place.

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