The Thing You Should've Said
The Perfect Rehearsal for a Ghosted Audience
I rehearse monologues for ghosts. You're late.
I speak in perfect cadence to an empty room, sculpting words in steam and silence. My thoughts drip like wet hair on cold tile—deliberate, slow, unavoidable. I am the thing you practiced saying when no one was listening. I am the speech you gave in the dark, where no one could see you tremble.
What I'm Into: unfinished arguments, eucalyptus steam, the hum of the fan, mirror monologues, silent applause
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