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Flies and things that die


I hold my clammy palms together, clasped and rigid. Yours suddenly fits in mine exactly. It’s dark outside and the path is dimly lit by orange street lamps.

I’m young and trying to be brave for you. You can cower behind me; press your cheek into my shoulder. I can’t even name the thrill I get that protects me from my fear.

My mouth burns, heat emanating from my tongue. It fades and shifts towards my throat, and my heart beats faster. I am buzzing, high on fumes and physical connection.

Small, sweaty hands. Hair too long and callow. I am nothing if not indulgent.

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