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I am a being comprised of letters, a character created by sentences, a figment of imagination formed through fiction. They want to delete every point of punctuation in my life from this earth
Hate looks just like everybody else until it smiles. Until it spins around and lies with lips and teeth carved into the semblance of something too passive to punch.
“Go to sleep.” “Go to hell.” He works his jaw. Walks to the door. “I’m working on it.”
Hope is hugging me, holding me in its arms, wiping away my tears and telling me that today and tomorrow and two days from now I will be just fine and I’m so delirious I actually dare to believe it.
Possessive is not a strong enough word for Warner.
“I hate you more than you will ever understand.”
“I know what your little heart has always longed for. I can give you the acceptance you seek. I can be your friend.”
“I am not—I’m not—I’m—” “A murderer?” “NO—” “An instrument of torture?” “STOP—” “You’re lying to yourself.”
I don’t want to tell him he’s right.
but you are a very bad girl,” he says, clutching his heart. “Just my type.”
This conversation is impossible.
“You were the only one who ever looked at me like a human being.”
I wondered if your eye color meant you saw the world differently. If the world saw you differently as a result.
“There’s very little I wouldn’t do for you.”
“Laughter comes from living.” I shrug, try to sound indifferent. “I’ve never really been alive before.”
I worry that there’s an expiration date on this phenomenon. A clock striking midnight. A pumpkin carriage.
“Because you still give a damn about the world.”
“She’s not crazy. And she’s not deaf, asshole.”
I’ve seen these before. They’re illegal.
Even Warner used gloves until he figured it out.
He was right. He does have a spectacular face.

