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  • It came like a swift punch to the gut...

    First, the air slipped out of my lungs and past my lips; almost like a hiss. It was slow and prolonged, making sure to get every little pocket of air until I was empty and gasping.

    Then the knots started. Twisting. Turning. Curling my stomach into a knot so tight sailors would be jealous. With each syllable, my innards twist into intricate patterns that make the best knitted sweater look ugly in comparison.

    And as I gasped for air, bent over clutching my stomach, the tears started. Slow at first. Picking up speed. Fast and wet.

    I hope you know with those words, you torched the bridge.

    And honey, there is no rebuilding this one.
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