Saturday, March 24, 2012

That little bitch already had a tattoo.  Part of you knew already.  That one time when you threatened about her getting one and she said, “What if I already have one?” and her eyes and smile were defiant yet jovial.  She was daring you and, short of ripping her clothes off, you knew.  But it was time to let her have her secrets, you thought, and your stomach made that ulcer feeling because of the truth of it.

We all are marked somehow.    

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