These are the things we keep in the dark, things we don’t say aloud except to ourselves, and even then, in whispers. Dry words, barely formed. Still, they are alive, thriving, festering, because we feed them, baby them, all in the dark.

And yet, they’re starved. It’s no wonder that the moment they hit light, they absorb so much so that they explode. And suddenly, it’s you who’s naked, who’s square in the light, and you realize that you’ve been using your heart things to clothe yourself. But they’ve up and exploded, and you’re left bare and alone.

You don’t even try to piece it back together, because the sense of shame is too great. All you can do is stand there, as though petrified, and let the light pierce through you. Heart constricting, because it’s a purification of sorts (but you wonder if you will ever feel clean).

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