August 11, 2010
click. click. familiar sound. the lighter rolls around the fingers it's named as playground. silken smooth save for the engraving carved in by the pocket knife it keeps company. "fake"

It springs to life, to light.

click. click. familiar sound. like the barrel of the gun sliding into place perfectly in tune with the shaking of orange, white-capped bottles.

If you listen carefully, they all sound the same, are the same. Together they are the silent war that brews in every part of me.

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