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August 2, 2019
I. He's dead. Sam's first thought in the morning is always this. He's dead. And there's nothing she can do to reverse it. All the small untruths and selfishness added up to this—it's her fault. She makes herself feel guilty because she thinks this will make her useful. In the kitchen the fridge is endlessly buzzing in staccatos. He's. Dead. He's. Dead. He's. Dead. Mornings are mocking her. Everyday. We hurt people even without meaning to. This sadness shall go away someday. For now she settles in, burrows deeper to make a Sam-shaped dent. It's okay.