It kept happening again, and again, and again.
Till I began to tire of the word. Yet the word never seemed to tire of me.

It kept sinking its ancient teeth into my naivety. I was the leftover fish, thrown out in the cold.
To me, it seemed like the beginning of a day that had no end, a day that wouldn’t grab me when I convinced myself to keep my hold.

The word multiplied and became more, while I, wrinkles and all, rotted to the core.