shouldn't, couldn't, wouldn't

She breathed in everything and it was like going to the country side: the freshest air, when unaccustomed with, stinging the lungs.

His long unfurnished bedroom. His high school socks.
His broken stupid guitars scattered around the room.
His mum, the brand new coffee cups, the tea and the backyard chickens.
His fine hair, overgrown, brushing on his temples, falling over, dismounting, wanting to rule over, feigning obedience.
His skin and his stubby eyebrows.
His careless clothes, pinned tight along his legs. His stupid little eyes.
Pretty eyes, muddled, colourless.
His obsession with himself, and with being capable, and imperfect: it hurt, it hurt, and it stung her quietly.

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