Sunday 12/26/2010 12:33:00 AM

the small cuts on her fingers tell the stories she never intended. Faint drops of blood. a light snow fall that quickly becomes a blizzard. it was only yesterday that her skin burned under the scowl of the sun. And now she is cold again. a hostile landscape of liars and friends. the differences between them too far away to detect.

she can see in the darkness. when she stops looking. she can climb the stairs. believing the attic is empty. though the heavy boxes would debate.

the lamp stays on. long after she's left the place. the alarm clocks keep screeching. long after she's forgotten. what's up there.

wilting sermons on the vanity of touch. long debates with the walls about the absence of windows.

the tiny cuts. those are the ones we remember. the big ones. mercifully allow us to forget.

she shouts at the scarecrow. fearing it is dead. paper cuts all that's left to measure. how far we've come.

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