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Okay so freewrites are when I just sit down and type something without any ideas or anything and just see where it goes. I haven’t edited this or revised it or anything, but I felt like postint it so…….

“Don’t do it” he pleads. Something inside me aches, but not my heart. If it actually worked I wouldn’t be doing this.
“You don’t have to, you know. No one is forcing you to do this.” I know, and that makes it so much harder. I focus on anything but him.
The thin, stained carpet reeking of rubber and antiseptic. The worn leather couch I called a bed for twelve years. I take a deep breath turning away him to the window.
The road below mirrors the sky above, stars and car lights revealing shadows of drunks and dreamers. I was once a dreamer, a hopeless romantic on the adventure of a lifetime.
I left New York and moved to a small town in Alabama. Bought a small house and fell in love. But it was all too much, my past didn’t match the present.
A worn leather couch to a cozy white bed. A cat-call to a sweet southern accent. A house to a home.
So I came back, to where I thought I deserved to live. But I don’t, I don’t deserve to live.
I look up at the sky and think of the stars, and as I fall I think of him.
His sweet southern accent, his warm hands, I think of how his carpet will smell like rubber and antiseptic when he scrubs the blood out of it. My blood.
And then I scream, regret throbbing every muscle in my body. He doesn’t deserve to clean up the mess of my scars, he doesn’t deserve to feel what I felt.
As I hit the ground I feel warm hands and the smell of rubber and antiseptic.

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