She can't relate to other people. Slouching in a creaking rocking chair at the top of a plastic slide. Balancing little copper pots of boiling water on her collarbones. Sewing flannel patches into sweaters without holes. Pulling close the dirty clothes from yesterday that smell like sweat and smoke. The secret things she leaves on her bureau aren't secret at all. The memory she clutches is a fleeting moment when setting sunlight filters through a green iris. She can't sleep without the blinds open. She can't relate to other people.
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