Title: Untitled
by Samina | in writing, fiction
My house is not a home. It's a sequence of grinding machines that piece together like a square peg in a round hole. A combination of regret and terror seeps rapidly into the every crack within every memory, that lies between our wretched walls. Our footsteps echo inside our starving minds. We're anxiously glaring and grinding, at the pieces, so that they fit. Together, as we'll never be.
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