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  • No one knows the hours she’s devoted to circling her sadness like a vulture, the mileage she’s worn into her soles, walking the hills of her city in a series of unsuccessful attempts at forgetting. No one heard the keening in the shower, or the thud of her fists against the dashboard. No one saw the resignation of her shoulder blades against the back door, or her palms curling under the kitchen faucet as hot water eviscerated the dishes, or the half-moons of mascara threatening stains on the duvet and her favorite t-shirt.
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