Dana Prejean

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I towel off and dig through the bag, deciding what to wear. I settle on a pair of leggings and a blue tank top. I pull the shirt over my head, and it rolls into a constrictive bunch under my armpits. Something’s not right. I wrestle it off, tugging it up half an inch at a time until I’m free, and hold it out in front of me.
That's Not My Name
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