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  • I'm making a snowflake in this photo. Darling, you must remember. You took it. This was a rough time for us, things were still a little delicate. We were less than a month out of some turbulence. You discovered that I kissed another woman that I had once loved madly, although it was a one way street. She remains close to me, but in another way; she saves my life now instead.

    But things are mending slowly, are healing. Trust being rebuilt, the gashes on my arms healing from the first cuts that I had made in years. Well, there was that one time I slashed my leg open after a fight with you. You wanted me to call a therapist I did not particularly like. I refused, but didn't cut myself again until you discovered what I had done behind your back; or better, until you confirmed what you had suspected – that I lied straight to your face.

    Out of this new round of cutting, though, and me telling you that the situation made me want to die, I did get a therapist I liked. She's saved my life now, too.

    But here we are, a month since the night I slept one hour, the afternoon when you asked me to skip my after-work class for martial arts, the evening where I cried and you cried and I kept a knife by the futon where I slept. We're optimistic, for the moment. A year later, things will be fucked in a different way, and will begin to spell the end we would avoid for months.

    For the moment, though, a happier set of blades, the scissors to make some snowflakes.

    Snowflakes to cover the hurt. Long sleeves to cover the scars.
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