When Sarah talks I picture a knife made out of glass being pushed between my ribs. What seeps forth is a bloodless letting of sins, oozing black and oily thick. Each utterance angles the blade perfectly. The pain is fierce though administers a certain lightness in the wake of its incision. I hated her once, before I learned to love the sharpness there. In time, no doubt, the edges will dull, the sins will build again in calloused pores, slathered onto my skin and ground upon with pumice into vicious mettle. Then the real blood will start to flow.

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