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Flesh-blood colors.

I knew I should take a picture for the crescent moon today, but I was too embarrassed to stop on the bridge with so many people crossing it too. I pretended to just be holding my phone in some funny way and hit the camera button twice.

Swallow your spit, my professor tells me several times weekly these days. “Move your tailbone. Some kind of inhibition has held you. Don’t let it rule.”

I like my plastic-wrap blanket: the wrinkled, tight, clear layers that let me appear to be but not have to move to be.

I’ll grasp scissors; start stabbing, jabbing, slicing upward, and ripping it. Mold flesh and blood and meat on the bones I built.

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