I prop my book up on my legs, and I can clearly see the many holes in my jeans. A long seam runs across my right knee like scar tissue from botched surgery. It hurts me to think: am I so downtrodden, laying down in the rain, that my shell, too, seeks its end? Soon, unraveling after unraveling, I’ll be left cold. Stitches can only mend for so long.
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