desperately and aggressively imposing
some kind of dominance, some kind of control,
over the words that have so injured him.
it doesn't work. the words still hurt,
and even they survive the warping and wrinkling-
they may not be whole after the tearing,
they may not survive the burning.
but as he sifts through the ashes on the McDonald's table,
where he turned the words to cinders,
he feels no respite. no freedom.
as he gets up to leave, he is followed by
the inexorably advancing lump in his throat.
"I LOVE YOU."
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