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An excerpt from a book, turned poetic:

She is in awe of the dark mornings, waking up to silence and stillness,

almost able to forget, the brokenness having seemed to repair a little overnight.

She treads lightly through her rooms, looking at things that are exactly as

she left them and thinking that maybe hope and joY and love might be too.

Hope and joY and love might be exactly where she's left them.

Quickly it comes though, so quickly every time, like an alarm going off.

That cold hand taps on her heart and reminds her that all is lost,

had never really been found in the first place because she cannot get

her hope or joY or love from outside, from things, from someone else.

All of it must come from her. All of it. From her.

All of it must come from her, but she is shattered and empty and there seems

nothing to be found that is not pain and doubt and fear and even loathing.

There is loathing and fear and doubt and pain and tears begin to fall again.

Tears begin to fall as they always do, heavy and fat and landing as sharp drops

in her lap so that she can look down and see, see her pants covered in spots.

She sees the spots her sorrow continues to make on her pants, in her life.

She sees the spots and she is tired. She is so tired of the sorrow and the spots.

She wipes at them. She wipes at them and wipes at them, but they do not fade

and then suddenly

she can no longer bear to be in those pants covered in spots.

She cannot be in them.

She cannot, cannot, cannot and so she stands up and urgently

pushes and tugs

and pushes and tugs

at the pants,

at the spots,

at her life.

She stands up and pushes and tugs and finally, finally takes them off.

For now. She takes them off.

She takes off her spots.

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