Paper thin bones nearly break underneath the crushing weight which my eyes press onto them, my mind working behind the scenes to make sense of the sweet, deep marrow. This girl’s paper bones tell the story of a path once traveled on; one the map in my brain cannot seem to locate. My frail fingers are tender with each doting touch and with each tap on her spine I plead, inform me of all things unknown. I seem to beckon more with every last tendril of detail, my thoughts escaping through thin air.


She is seemingly afraid to open up and allow my eyes to graze her ink wounds, the perpetrator’s intentions locked up in secret, the key disposed. The soft silk of the situation turns into rough wool, and I find myself trapped within her unclear mantra. She craves a knowledge and caters to a specific type of care. I find myself with a sick headache after yearning too long for something nonviable.


She closes herself off once and for all, her metaphorical finger wagging at me with each blinking moment of my woeful attempts at erudition.


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