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a wait in the lost and found (or was it really abandonment?) This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

anger.
It’s vile, but do I even have that right to be angry with him, for what he did to me, because maybe’s he’s right; did i leave him, i didn’t think i did, i thought i was clear enough, but maybe i wasn’t. or maybe he’s lying, covering his a** is more like it, because this is time number three this has happened, time number three that i spent more than five weeks out of a month crying into a pillow about what he was, who he used to be, what he should’ve been, but maybe that wasn’t enough time?
i’ve been like this since my first escapade in grade nine where i felt lips on my breast that soothed me calm and i’ve been semi-addicted ever since, because i’m a weak little girl, a weak little child who needs the love to fix her, who needs to understand that her heart’s not made of quartz, but glass.

lave.
(did i spell that right?)

come home, i want someone else to come home and hold me while i curl into pillbug corpses and coo sweater weather over me as i stare at the ceiling. I do that anyway, but maybe it’d be nice to have someone join me once in a while. (that’s a song lyric i think, does that make this letter more romantic?).

e.e



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