All Legs and Insecurities

January 11, 2011
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Her fingerprints were seventeen years young, coated with antibacterial soap and despair and smudged upon the tabletops of fast food joints for any sex-starved b****** to find. Daylight hours were wasted away with faux smiles behind drive-thru windows, nights with faux pleasure beneath the sheets of ever-changing faceless lovers.

Breaks were only ten minutes long, and she spent them with the bathroom mirror, whispering sweet nothings to her tear-stained reflection and applying yet another thick layer of ruby red to down-turned lips. Some days she thought that if she put enough makeup on, it would mask her ugly soul.

There were names for girls like her, all legs and insecurities in short skirts and low-cut sweaters.

"W****."





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