Inside you is a skeleton

Inside you is a skeleton. It has felt the Sun, though dimly filtered. Just enough to know it's *not* enough.

It wants to feel the cool rain. The tang of lemons. The grip of a spear. 

It grows bitter at being muzzled by complacent flesh. Every cracking joint, a demand to be set free. Every popping vertebrae, an escape attempt.

Centuries later, an archeologist brushes dust off a skull. It sees the Sun and smiles.


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