The Faded Masquerade
You look at me like I’m a stain on the carpet, like I’m something to be scrubbed out rather than spoken to, and I know that look, I have lived in that look for fifteen years, watching it settle into the wrinkles of your face as you hold my tenure review in your hands, the paper trembling slightly not from wind but from the weight of the decision you have already made. The room smells of lemon...
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