I do my best, leaving out the husks, the tough, tasteless bits that stick in your mouth, begging to be spit out. Like lying under bright surgical lights, feeling like a still-alive frog about to be dissected. The phantom pains that fool you into thinking you still have your breasts, until you reach for them. Wishing you could keep the thick, white gauze on forever so you don’t have to face the deformity below. Crying in the bathroom because your scars are puckered and bruised, and not at all like the nice, clean lines you imagined. How ‘okay’ becomes your personal mantra. ‘Okay, okay, okay,’
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