She picks up the slip of paper and holds it between us like a peace offering, but even if I wanted to take that olive branch, I’m sure it would give me splinters. Thin, sharp irritants, digging into my skin, festering until I ripped them out with blood-stained tweezers. Worse, I think, would be if they stayed there too long. If my skin grew over them and every time I pressed down, I’d wince, knowing in this exact moment I could’ve said no but didn’t.
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