but it doesn't feel a thing like falling

by Rachel Lynch in

     I hated the smell of red wine. Still do. The way it lingered on the fingers, and the way the fingers hit my skin. I associate the smell with a blow, to the right cheek. Repeat. I still don’t understand how they can take something as simple as grapes and turn it into something that makes people so ugly. The smell intrudes my senses, my skin. The grapes destroy his brain cells, and then he destroys my face.

Cells need oxygen to breath. I’m convinced, two years later, that my cells could live on strength, sheer endurance. For I have endured more that I could ever ask for.

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