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There is a twang in each word riddling my mouth; it wasn't always there, but now it's all I ever hear. Monsterette's pitter patter is the only crisp sound to my ears, the sole refuge in which I can lay pride without always laying bricks of concern. Her teeth are neat, perhaps because they've barely breached, or pierce with such ease you begin to understand that nasty grin children cannot help, cannot hide when they've been caught doing something wrong sort of. She's not even mine, and that makes it okay to care, to want, to love, unabated by expectation. it occurred to me how difficult it would be to adopt primarily because I am a man, but also because I am young -- society's shallow way of telling me I've failed in some new measure. And I'm still not of age yet to care about gardens and the like; the things you can kill or nurture while being exempt from torture. I wonder if ever in my future I'll be of age to stop questioning. perhaps then my twang will cool it, maybe for a few syllables. |