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please don't take my words away. i need them for the beauty i was born without, for the entwining music and grace that i could spin out of silky sounds, instead. she said i was like a spider, putting my threads together in a horribly gorgeous trap, and watching my prey getting entangled in them. only, i always let them go, and i don't tell her. futility is pretty.

please don't take my words away. i saw the sun this morning, and it was bigger than i thought [bigger than my thoughts (i think)] i saw the moon this night, but it couldn't compare. it stole the sunlight and called it moonlight, and i didn't think that was fair. life isn't fair, she said, the world isn't fair. maybe i'll be fair. would that help?

please don't take my words away. i used to keep some in that little box under my bed. she found it, though, and she said it was stupid and she burned them. the paper curled when she put it above the candle, curled and hissed. nothing dies happy, she said. i won't die happy, but i could try.

please don't take my words away. there was a little boy that lived down my street, and he never looked at you or talked to you. he had a teddy bear that he always held, and sometimes he would talk at it [to it (i think)] they used to fuss over him but then they got bored and they left him. i think he was sad. i would be too.

please don't take my words away. i gave them, once, to my teacher at school. when he gave them back to me, he put his own words in, ugly and red, and they hurt mine. she said not to show people again, if i can't take criticism. but how can you criticize words? they're who you are, and you can't change that. she said you can. i think she's wrong. she thinks she's right.

please don't take my words away. when i was little like the boy that lived down my street, i didn't have any words. she said i did have them, only i wasn't using them. but if i had words i would have used them. i know it [perhaps (i think)] the answers are in blue, don't look them up. they would only hurt you more.

please don't take my words away. when i was little, too little to possibly have words, i was happy, maybe. for a while. but then i wasn't, and it hurt a lot. like that time i fell and my knee started bleeding, maybe more than that. maybe. she said i use maybe too much. i'm losing too many words. maybe.

please don't take my words away. i saw a little bird on a tree branch, and it sang and sang and sang [screamed and screamed and screamed (i think)] she threw a rock at it and it fell to the ground, and it wasn't singing any more. stupid birds, she said, they make such a racket. my words don't make a racket, do they? i think they sing, but what if they scream? what if a rock hits it? then they won't make noises any more, i guess.

please don't take my words away. i couldn't live if you did. they're all I have left. without them i'd die. she said i wouldn't, but i know i will. you can't live on nothing.

please don't take my words [what words (i think)] away. i want them. i need them. but i can't tell you how or why because they're mostly gone.

please don't take my words away. no matter what she said.

please don't take my words
please don't take my
please don't take
please don't
please

[ (i think)]



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