10 December 2007
my story.I feel the beginnings of a story. They are squeezed in the gaps between my nails and my skin. When I let the tips of my fingers touch, I feel faint jolts trying to push their way out of my body. I uncannily leave traces. Wisps of narrative glow, scratched off on the surface of my bed. Streaks. On the skin of my groin, dripping off from hair. Puddles. Uncollected sentiments and hints of feelings end up tucked under the dark creases of my sheets. When I get up, I pretend that they’re not there.
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