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From Stone “Are you jealous of me?” Medusa hisses. Her friends slither, and smile. “Another statue,” they laugh. “Pretty, cold, porcelain; meant for a shelf,” they mock.
I remember. It started when I was five years old. Young, but never got to be. Not five years old, not six, not seven, eight or nine. TEN years to hold such a secret, until I could no longer keep it.
His kisses are the stains of black and blue that decorate my pale skin, like proclamations of affection shouted into the void, they forever float, a reminder of our romance a reminder that He loves me
This is a slam for those who are broken To speak of their pains and words unspoken