Sunday, July 15, 2007

I wrote the letter a million times over. It looked different in the morning and in the sun. Suddenly, the cloying words and the simpering sweetness eked visceral disgust from my clinging skin. Who was this that wrote this? I don’t know her anymore.

At least she had the good sense not to send it. For a moment, I felt camaraderie and a little empathy. For this other self that is so fragile and yet so discreet.

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