Saturday, January 20, 2007

She can't remember the last time she ever truly felt loved.

The harsh phosphorescence of his touch sparks at the memory. She smothers it in the ashes from the burning fire they had started in the name of love. She hides it in the garden, under broken branches and poison hemlock roots.

She stays in the attic, painting names on the floorboards of the children she could have loved.

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