Image by Capri23auto from Pixabay

He was a sponge.
Taking everything inside.
Radiating nothing out.

Absorbing their anxieties.
Feeding on their chaos.
Drinking their history.
Soaking up their future.

He had to pretend.
For what option did he have?
It was the only way.
They’d trust him with their demons.

All he wanted was for someone.
To invade his chest just once.
Squeezing all the juice out.
Of wounds. Of hurt. Of pain.
So he could be a dry sponge again.

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