tuckova

ideas, old gossip, oddments of all things

You stumble into the room on legs that do not belong to you, though the pain is certainly yours. Collapse fetal on the floor and a scream rips from your throat, arches up and falls back on a cascade of sobs so raw they embarrass you. Weeping into your knees, so humiliating and so unstoppable, and the carpet soaks in a widening circle of blood, which for the moment you can use as your excuse, though of course the real wound is much deeper; the bleeding much harder to stop, the cries even harder to muffle.
 
 
 
 
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