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by daishin stephenson
i cut her while she was sleeping. a gurgling-wheeze left the hole in her throat. being in a room with her had never been so quiet. normally, she droned on about how poor my choices were. i scratched my eyebrow with my thumb; a scratch-patterned blood smear remained. “choices, the importance of choices,” her voice in my head. i chuckled. it was a poor choice to succumb to the itch; her choice in soap was poor. Comments are closed.
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