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Letting my head go

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We hid under the blanket inhaling each other's anxieties like oxygen. We were running low. Our heads became balloons, and with one cut of the string, they would impatiently fly away from our bodies towards the seductively empty skies. While our bodies would be here, ripped apart by hands-- hands that didn't even deserve to be called hands, instead they were claws made to rust with blood. Our tearful gasps created a rhythm of solidarity. And then came the expected beat drop. Our song introducing an unwanted guest, recklessly rearranging our composition with sweaty, slippery hands. She was taken by the neck, as if his hands were the jewels she always wanted and ran away for in the first place. I closed my eyes-- harshly at first, smushing my mascara into the crinkles of my lower lid, then lightly, allowing my eyes space to breathe. But without her, I had no more to breathe. And what happened to her, I will never know to my own body. Not because it didn't happen-- but because I snipped. I let my head go. Perhaps it wasn't my choice. Perhaps he pretended there was no consciousness attached to this body. Perhaps that made it easier to do to me what he did.






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