Nothing Sadder Than Cold Grits
It took the gashes she etched into my back months to heal. I feared they’d be pulpy and inflamed forever. I took artsy photos of my battle scars in the sepia lighting of my bathroom and uploaded them to the internet. When I wanted to feel something for her, I would dig my nails into the welts closest to my ass. Being on top of someone, filling someone up who’s that empty — took all of me. I loved her. I really fucking did. Who else would if I didn’t? I can still hear the way she said my...
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