Watching myself in the mirror makes me feel like a voyeur and suddenly I want to feel her hurt me. I trace the line of my collarbone with my fingers, drawing her memories on my skin. Here a faded archipelago of bruises like markers on pirate parchment, there the shriveling scratches lingering like crime scene chalk. I press my palm to the reflection of my chest, watching the man there waste my tears. I wish that I could tell him something meaningful, something beautiful and kind. I can’t. I know that later I will restock his sorrow with selfishness.

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