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  • Writer's pictureNour Mattar

he car-crashed into me:

Part 1: He grabbed me like an old worn out backpack, and kicked me down like a deflated football. My crisp tongue spilt pots of alphabet soup combined of the letters to form the words: "please stop" and "no" all over the deaf floor. But he drove deeper into my tunnels, damaging my sensitive sock-like self.

Part 2: My cherry M&M lips melted shut and glued themselves together like paper. I bled rouge glitter after his car crashed, and sprinkled baby powder on the road. The weak apologetic words he threw would not be able to stitch the wounds that gushed a steady stream of scarlet sour punk.

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