Somewhere between the frozen layers sleeps a fragile woman.
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Waiting for her husband to remove the shards of glass.
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The sun betrays the light that it once shed.
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And daughter cuts the hair.
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Tangled in a silver brush.
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Spitting at a broken mirror.
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I feel the movement of ghosts in the room.
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She keeps a photograph locked in her mouth.
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The smell of turpentine drips from the walls.
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Forgive and forget.
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Relive and regret.
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You're not alone.
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I've seen the dead arise.
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Ruth Buzzi Better Watch Her Back
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The Bled |