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  • I'd begun to dress myself in story. I wish you'd seen it. Ribbon's of words tied through my hair.
    “I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.” and "why, what could she have done, her being what she is?"

    They tied in tight. I didn't mind. You do it to look good, you know?

    I wanted something that would show me off, I put on the forest green, skintight Mockingbird. I tried The Birthday Letters. I slipped my feet into too tall Murakami. I Scarlett O'hara'd my lips. I rustled the Nin of my thighs, adjusted the blackness of my suspender. Little drops of the Game of Chess and the Fire Sermon on my fingers and toes.

    I knew about other women. The way they'd have a nip of Wordsworth here or inject a bit of Toni Morrison there, to iron it all out. I never went that far. I can say that still. It was just the allure and the smell of it I wanted. Not the permanence. Not the regret. Not the taking sides and the growing older and seeing things with eyes that understood the Kerouac and the Holden Caulfield. Its what we all want, isn't it? So what's a little line or a tiny quote? If it looks good, why not?

    When you didn't come, Whisky Priest. I burnt all the books and began to write my own.

    I started over. Found new words. Made the story clean and good. Wrapped it in four leaf clover. Set it against the sky. Tied it to the trees. Dressed in my body only. That's what happens when you burn all the books, fictional saviour. You set the story free.
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