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Best Friend She is violent with her skin. Her white cotton gown smells as she sickens, soaks the bloodstain in tears and cold bathhouse water, washes what pressed against her newly sprouted breasts, the manicured hands that pinned hers to the damp soil, the eyes so close to her own when he entered, pumped like a vulgar dog, finished like a deflating ball. For this, her body still, soul numb-cold as a river, forever keeps on moving away. 44 ...

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