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I'm having a hard time writing this. my lips were not dry but they could have been. in my mind, after that nightmare I just had, everything was an uncomfortable combo of dry and wet and overflowing moisture. I grabbed the cherry lip gloss and delicately coated the crumbles, perfect. then I layered on the vitamin e lotion onto my hands floated them into the kitchen and squeezed their puss bodies into the pink kitchen cleaning soap rubbing these disinfect protect my hands gloves. And as I dumped the white beans their overnight water friend poured through the strainer and my chunks of vitamin E my followed. The sink was white but chunky and I wanted to laugh hysterically because I had been transported to the eleventh grade where I was so hormonally aware of all of the likes. Why had she stopped liking things. I never post but she stopped noticing me, as if I wasn't confused enough about my sexuality. This is not about that, however, and nervous that my hands would dry I started to rub them around the sink to catch the chunks that left the glove except the gloves were still on. I pulled them off and unearthed part of me and the inside of the glove that had combined. It was like staring at my bones and noticing that there would never be a way to moisten those babies, never. Fuck



the soles of these crumbled below me as I served eight-year-olds ice coffee.  

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