![]() ![]() His fist on the hotel room door sounds like thunder in my head. Just like I know he’s going to be pissed before I hear his voice. But does it really matter in the grand scheme of things? When did that happen?Ī lift of the bottle. I can remember all that, so why can’t I remember if I did or if I didn’t . . . ? I must have. The dark red coming through my closed fingers as I try to fix her. ![]() Of course they knew-so why’d they lie to me? Didn’t I have a right to know what was on that paper? To accept? To deal with it? So sick of wondering if my adoptive parents knew. The white pieces I peel off stick to my arms-but they don’t matter. The ones that started the minute I opened that box three weeks ago and pulled out the piece of paper that rocked my world. ![]() The ones that aren’t really dreams anymore. My mind exhausted.īecause this alcohol-induced haze is much better than the dreams that won’t stop. Little pieces float in the light showing through the crack of the blackout blinds of the hotel room. The ones with the hole in the knee from that nice lady with the funny glasses at the Salvation Army. ![]()
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