This is my last wish, for all of my tendons, veins, and bones, have been drilled with words—words filled with sobbing, choking, gasping breaths. Words filled with agonizing, tormenting, heartwrenching claws on the skin. Words consumed and drowned with prayers. No more do I believe in wishes, no more do I close my eyes when the clock strikes 11:11. No more do I plant my future in the hands of a wishbone or a flower. No more, no more, no more.
And with that, I wish you the best.
BẠN ĐANG ĐỌC
11:11
Ngẫu nhiêndear stray eyelashes, ladybugs, dark tunnels, wishbones, dandelions, pennies, shooting stars, 11:11, and birthday candles, when will you do your job?
