with a wounded hand

it likes to heal

half the man I used to be

Weiland dies, and I am thrust into all of my memory. Watching all the sounds I grew up with be picked off one by one by their own demons while I buckle under the weight of my own.

I’d like to be paralyzed by your silence and avoidance, but I am angry still at the things you’ve done and the things you haven’t. I don’t feel punished by your rejection, you don’t realize how you are culpable in this outcome.

I have echoes to send.

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