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cigarette smokers, performing
shitty alchemy – replacing mental ailments
with remedies which can’t render
any sort of closure,
all those split ends on the edge of our
nerves and veins in the end must be exposed
suffering the pain as much as the peace we
strive to gain in a restless sleep, we rose up
into our dreams, filled with
smoke curling around the words we spoke
during the day,
letting them echo off the walls of our head
not listening at all, letting them have their
way with our bodies until the only call
we can answer, is to turn over in our sleep
and keep wrapped under blankets
letting our sadness rub our hearts raw

written by Tiny Fawns for daily prompt: symptom

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