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Muffled
Two of the three lightbulbs in my ceiling fan have stopped working,
leaving the corner where my bed lies drowned in darkness
because I already know.
The warm ar rattling through the vent directly above me
periodically murmurs to a halt, surrounding me in silence.
Don't tell me it's going to be okay,
My favortie rain-scented candle has burned itself out.
replacing its once pleasing aroma with putrid smoke
because I already know.
The mug, once too hot to the touch, is drained
of the heat I had used to warm my hands.
Don't tell me it's going to be okay,
My parents think I lost my appetite, but
I just don't like the extra salt in my food
because I already know.
The words are now woven in my mind
but I can't bring myself to cut the thread.
Don't tell me it's going to be okay,
because I already know.
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I wrote this villanelle the night I found out I wasn't accepted into the college I had thought was my dream college. . .