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March 9, 2012

No matter how much of it, it won’t console me.  Presents and acts of service, the words, though he was more generous with those in the beginning.  His body in his moonlit room, where we sleep together, where I cling to his back when I wake with too few hours until I must get up again.  Never alone in years, I’ve let them in.  I’ve slammed doors, smashed glass, cried at night when I didn’t get it back. And they never give it back.

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