The word was “careful,” and it sat on my tongue like a mouthful of bullets.
Heavy but smooth, it left a bad a taste behind, reminded me of coins for some reason.
Careful was crafted by worriers. Careful was for those who lost sleep over nothing.
I much preferred the sounds of “wild” and “careless” and “free.”
Because what sense is there in playing it safe? Is fate not enough to believe in?
Careful is for those who’ve never been shattered, never pieced themselves back together.
We’re stronger at the breaks, remember? A little carelessness builds an armor.
Caution and worry and hesitancy are ammo that will only work against yourself.
The mouthful of bullets that never turn to coins, never really save face.
The word was “careful,” and it set out to ruin me once. I turned spitfire and ended it all.


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