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  • It seems that lately my life is a series of fluttering love affairs before a grand departure. Yesterday, a handwritten poem tumbled from my desk into a cup of hot tea. Soaked halfway through, I felt evil -- I had clipped its wings to save room, and now, here, a sodden sepia stained folded love note, not even capable of that gentle drifting that prefaces every disastrous landing.

    Today I've got too many words in my mouth. When did this become a diary, with accompanying photos? It is inappropriate to post something like bruises he left with his mouth, and yet here I am, and here it is. Isn't the skin the most appropriate, and the closest, thing we have to documentation?

    Could I not have handed you, instead, a photo of the love note soaked and rotting in my desk drawer? It had words in it about my features. Now it paints a half-sepia scarred image of me.

    And so, lately, I am holding myself together with the sutured palm-lines of the men I've found here. And the notes they write. And the words they whisper into my shallow bones. I say to them, if it bruises it means I will remember. They know how rarely I am capable of paying attention. For those of you reading, I apologize, but this is an image of the only sound lately that has made it through my ears.
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