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  • Writer's pictureLifa

The Song of Pearls

I plucked at the pearls, sheltered by the ocean mist. The shells scraping in my hands flinted a chime. Another pearl stolen. Scrape, pluck, scrape, pluck. It was a song thrumming through my bones, the past desecrations eroding into an echo that tried desperately to sting my consciousness. I emptied the pearls of their holiness, eating them whole. For what is more sacred than being alive?


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