The Cartography of Pain
I am the silver line on the left shoulder. I was born in a moment of sudden, sharp heat—a cigarette extinguished against skin that had no right to be touched. I am the first entry in the archive. For years, I have watched the world through the eyes of the woman who carries me. I feel the tremor in her muscles when the door opens at midnight. I feel the coldness of the air when she is forced to...
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