object writing
heat rises, face flushed. voices drop as your footsteps fall empty on the hardwood. the knob is cold in your hands. if only the cool from your fingertips would reach your forehead. you swallow back a lump of shame. it goes down slow, with a hitch, a catch. a hard sour rock. you don't want to swallow it but you don't want it known, so you force it
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