She stretched out under the sun,
chewed a piece of grass
and exposed her freckles.
They grew dark with worry.
But that was their issue,
not hers.
The sun would always be there,
burning if you got too close.
She clung to the rays nonetheless,
made them appear beautiful,
for she had to think that.
So she could concentrate on the warmth,
the distant embrace
to numb out the hard blow to her stomach,
(the boy’s stones)
after she heard those words.
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