“Once, there was a girl who loved a boy. She loved him without reservation, without caution. She peeled herself open, tore off layers and layers of her skin and lay before him, naked, quivering, drenched in her own blood. She looked into his eyes and thought he was hers. She burned into memory every touch, every glance–the way his fingers threaded hers as he drove, the feel of his rough chin pressing against her neck, his crinkle-eyed smile that made the unbearable bearable. He seized her offering and swallowed her whole. He told her he couldn’t love her no matter how hard he tried. It was just another failed love story–one that was as familiar to her as the contours of her own flesh, one that she’d seen unfold many times before. It was a story she had never wanted to claim but it was now hers, all hers. It was all that was left once he was gone.”

This is a fragment from a draft of an old, unfinished story that is sitting in a folder somewhere gathering dust…


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