I’m not sick. I’m not sick. But I feel it. I feel it in my bones, in my liver, which quivers whenever you’re around… and whenever she’s around. I feel all of the past months haunt my hollowness, a hollowness that’s necessary, that protects me.

Maybe I’m too young for such timeless misfortunes and disappointments. Maybe I’m not trying hard enough to replace the black with brightness – but I suppose my flaws have already been exposed, illuminated. Those shiny deep insecurities, like shards of sharp glass stuck in the ridges of a fingerprint. We’re all shattered inside; we all have reflections of our fears kept hidden.

I watched the sun fall and the chill of the air submit to it. I want to walk many roads and see all sides of this sun, turning its face to the South now. And, in this desire, I want to feel the weight of my womanhood collapse from this body. I want to feel free from the constraints of another desire, another need. You.

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