Friends

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“Friends”, You vow.

The word tiptoes on my tastebuds, stinging like a lemon in a baby’s mouth. 

“Friends”, I shutter.

I want to hang my skin on the coat rack for suddenly it is too warm in this place for me to wear it.

“Friends”, I repeat.

A butterfly does not return to it’s cocoon after months of metamorphoses.

She has outgrown you.

-Friends