August 2011
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the pebbles cut diamonds into my knees through cotton stockings as I part flowers and bushes in search of the bottle of winter’s woes. my memory of losing it is hazy, compromised, and wouldn’t hold up in a court of law, but you remember, don’t you? disposing the evidence of our drunken debauchery on the sidewalk before you carried me down the long driveway and into your bed. five months...