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Camille
I dress like her and listen to music I think she might like just so i don’t feel completely alone.
She wasn’t even that kind. Or thoughtful. She was just hurt. And I like to think she would understand me. So I keep her in my pocket, like some kind of sacred amulet. Or maybe one of those little woven worry dolls that are supposed to ease your troubles. I hold her close to my face and I whisper my heartbreaks and sorrows and trivial inconveniences to her.
Sitting in a parked car in the Walgreens parking lot I cry silently and clutch at her nothingness and watch the as old homeless woman pushes her cart across the dark pavement.
And then I start the car, and drive home without turning on my headlights. I have work tomorrow. I do need my beauty sleep, you know.
Copyright ©
Anna Robinson
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