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Fuckwit

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This is my mother’s table. It was her father’s. When she was little, he used to make pastries on it. He’d stretch the dough and sausage mince as far as it would go because his income was small and his family was big. When he was finished, she and her siblings would make faces and shapes out of the slivers left over. It’s been 35 years, and she’s still mourning him. Just yesterday she reminded me not to throw the table out when she’s dead, because it’s one of the last things on the earth that was his. One of my fuckwit little sisters wrote ‘I ❤ dimond 4 life' on it. Honey, if you can't spell it, don't guess.

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What does your face look like now? Are there any new lines or dots? It has been about a year since our boat hit the rocks and we stopped our high talks about what it means to be alive, die and whatever happens after that. It’s been about a year since my immune system untangled itself from yours and started breathing unfamiliar air. Are we celebrating this anniversary, the death of our relationship? It’s been about a year since our bodies were near but in my mind unfortunately, you are still there. Please leave me like I left you.

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