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Very unfinished
Woodchips scratch the inside of my knees. My hair is covered in dirt. “I love you,” I say.
My shoulders are pinned down on an oilcloth motel sheet. Your sweat drips on my face; my eyeliner’s running. ”I love you,” I say.
We eat cereal for breakfast. You’ve got a hangover from the night before. You owe me fifty bucks. Still, I love you.
The second time you get drunk, I can’t even cry. Still, I tell you I love you.
