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There would have been poplars, apples, a suburban Sunday. There would have been a fire opal dissolving within a ripple-ringed pool, a last throb, a last dab of color, stinging red, smarting pink, a sigh, a wincing child.
Shamefully, no apologies. Too wrapped up in my own dysfunction. I've been sitting and biting. Between my teeth, tearing flesh and pulling it from my fingers. Licking at the blood that wells, and again, and once more, as it pools to the surface. Colorful bandages cover colorful torn skin. Your hands, and, what happened, and, are you okay....? Always. Perfectly fine. Just trying to stop those nasty nervous habits. Been reading a book about - how funny is that? - a little girl tricked, thinking she knows what she wants, but I'm sure that by the end, she'll be scarred and scared forever by the bad decisions she's made. Those decisions she thought she'd made herself, but almost for sure, she was just tricked. It wasn't her fault, was it? Because it seems like it was, but please say it's otherwise, please. Cracked lips pull and sting. Chewing, scraping, splitting, hurting. It's nerves, just my nerves. I can't help it, anxious habits, nervous ticks, things that take my attention. Tap tap tap tapping feet, crossing and uncrossing and crossing constantly fidgeting legs, I can't sit still at these desks. Haven't looked in the mirror much. Don't want to, don't need to. Food doesn't taste good. It shows. Sleep hardly ever comes. It shows too. Doesn't seem to matter. Stills says I'm pretty. Is a little concerned though. I'm still drinking a bit too much. Still uses me. That's all that matters. This "clever tongue" you seem to love so much doesn't wish to work right now. Why should you love the tongue, the mouth, the eyes, the skin, and not the boy for the boy's sake? I'm alive, but am certainly not happy.
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