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some stories bury themselves so deep within the flower bed of the mind that the earth trembles. throbs. when they are dug out.
This was the real me: the girl who pressed all her desires flat to avoid causing a stir.
She told me that she came from a family that showed love through hospitality, through open doors. The concept was novel and intriguing and so very strange. I knew she’d get sick of me eventually, that her hospitality would soon wear thin, as everyone’s did. She’d inevitably grow tired of dragging along this new girl who constantly had her foot in her mouth.
