The Distant Wound
The ink on your forearm has faded to the color of dried blood, a greyish-brown smear that looks less like a brand and more like a bruise that never healed, yet when you press your thumb against the skin, the cold seeps straight through to the bone, a chill that has nothing to do with the damp stone of the cell and everything to do with the fact that you are still here, still breathing, still...
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