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She wears a T over flannel bottoms, not the cutoff she likes to sleep in. She lies when she’s asked where she was and what she did. A glass of orange juice and toast is all she wants. She licks the jam from a finger’s tip remembering the night before. She won’t say anything more. She goes back to her room and looks in the mirror. She lifts her shirt and lowers her jammies. She turns to the left and right. She slips a finger between her thighs, and tastes a drop between her lips.
····come as deep as the bruises on her
Redbud | January 3 2017