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scraps;
July 21, 2011
Sometimes the porcelain moon is more broken than I thought it was, because I can feel the inches of moon dust sliding off my shoulders when I reach down to touch my toes, falling around me into a shimmering silver beach of iridescent sand.
People think it’s beautiful, but when I look at it, it just reminds me of nightmares I have so often of you and your empty promises.
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