Stir.

Those words were born in your lungs. They became alive in your chest, crawling up your throat and into your mouth. They looked for the chance to develop meaning around the darkness of your mouth. Searching underneath your tongue and between your teeth, but you allowed them to escape into the air with a quick push by the flick of your tongue.

It might be the alcohol, or the hour of the night, but it certainly is not heartfelt. It’s not honesty; it’s a test on who will drop their pride to compliment your own ego. You don’t mean these words. They barely leave your mouth, but with each pathetic sentence the emptiness is resounding. It’s the wish to feel wanted, not the wish to want as once before.


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