Day after I day, I get out of bed, wash my hair and take care of my body as if someone might love it. I layer it with lotions, slide into lacey panties and try to feel pretty. Then I jam twenty-five cent Little Debbie snacks into my mouth on the way home.

Life is painful, but don’t worry for me. I don’t feel any of it. I flit. I flit about, ignoring it, trying to make everyone happy and pleased with me. Or maybe I’m flattering myself. Maybe I don’t flit. Maybe I crash. I crash about, knocking into things, damaging things…people…myself.

And when the tears come, I still can’t sink in. I still can’t feel the pain. I pretend I’m in a movie, crying decadently for the camera. Why do I bother to fight the tears if they don’t matter anyway?


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