When we share things

and accept each other

the room gets warmer

the worst

cold

chill

is when someone shares

and the other

pretends.

It’s horrible

to humor

to play this linguistic game

like a crooked guitar

or a broken banjo

their twisted wires

of scratchy

sound

gut me

tightening

their tension

of coarse,

grainy,

gazes.

They strike music

fitting to their ears

like a snake

not knowing

its venom

cut-open faces

of sliver smiles

infected

unable to grin

without a grimace

and perhaps this is why

I prefer solitude

even if

there is only one warm body

and the room

gets colder

and colder…

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