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sometimes these words, interspersed with smears of grease from whatever I was eating, wrinkles from my tears shed in real time, scribbles in the margins from my attempts to revive dying pens, remind me instead that the person I was before is gone, and I’ll forever be in her shadow, unable to look at myself without homing in on every ugly difference.
She’s the vampire, yet I’m the one wishing I could sink my teeth into her, drink her in until I’m full to bursting.
Laura tastes like something words will never touch—something that threatens to untie me and show the world the breadth of my hunger, like tugging the tip off a cattail and letting the explosion of fluff sail in the wind.
“I love you,” I say. It feels like jumping into a pile of leaves after hours of raking, spreading my aching arms and legs as the cushion of brown and orange crackles under my weight. “And I’m yours.”
“Heterosexuals are an endangered species in the undead community.”
“Feeling so short on time that I feel like I gotta apologize for feeling a feeling.”