I want to phone you, or contact you in some way

Maybe say something loud enough so that it breaks out of this silent medium.

But I can't and I won't, because last time you looked at me you looked sick.

So that's why I'm here, in the hot room, hearing the ceiling fan loop round. Feeling the wet heat press in through the dark wood shutters. Whilst I curl around this hole in me, where the bullet was taken out.

Bêbe brings me tea sometimes, but does that fuckface thing where I'm supposed to be guilty about being ill.

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