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I'm actually not really sorry at all

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My mouth hurts. I called him a snake,
because I can swear to you that snakes really do exist, and they live
in front of your eyes. The lean bones he chews when he's bored. It's in his
guts that you can find a
graveyard of bones and voices.

When mother takes me hunting, I
always shoot the littlest turkey.
It's so easy. Why does it matter? I
snap the trigger, and it thrashes.
Pause. Static.

Right here, and right then.

When you give a child the a-okay to
stomp down on the head of a
badger, I can bet you five kisses
that you won't be seeing a badger
anymore. Instead, you'll see the
monster that humanity has birthed,
except humanity is the monster
so I'm sorry for being a
hypocrite.

Foot in the air. Leaning down. Kick
ing someone is fun when they're
already covered in dust.

It's unfair, because who knew that
the human body could hold so much red.

His mouth hurts. He called me a snake,
because he can swear to you that snakes really do exist, and they live
in front of your eyes. The lean bones I chew when I'm bored. It's in my
guts that you can find a
graveyard of bones and voices.

It's not that I wanted to hurt anyone; it's more that I really just don't think of it as much as people say I should.

But even then, that's still hurting you and I'm sorry because I'm actually not really sorry at all.




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