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“Mother, it is lonely to be inside a body that is such a violent thing. How have you done it for all of these years?”
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“I am a servant for my mothers unhappiness. I can make myself smaller, mother, I can become quieter. I am a wound that you can’t stop picking. I take scraps from dinner as little parts of love. I know that I am not easy to love. I know I wear my sadness so visibly that you’ve become ashamed of me. Make me small, crush me up in the palms of your hands. Destroy me for breakfast and devour me for lunch, leave nothing left of me, not even for the birds. Eat me. Eat me up. It’s too late to apologise now, sorry means nothing when you’re choking on my leftovers.”
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“Health is not simply the absence of sickness”
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