Like her lips, all of her is poised to allure. It’s the sort of coy game she’s learned to play her whole life, without ever once knowing what it’ll win her. It’s what girls are expected to do, she knows. We know, too. We play the game. It’s less a game and more the choreography of survival. It just feels like a game in all its mysterious rules and mundane choreography. You sit, your legs together. You laugh, but not too loud. You speak, but only in answers. You reveal all things through subtext. You’re the closed flower, the lidded jar, the blanketed birdcage. Someday, usually as it’s
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