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Gloves

His dirty hard fingers touch me again. In the ribs, then the back, then they slide down and I’m awake, praying that those little pills kick in. There’s enough in me, and he forced three whiskeys down me to ‘loosen up’ before he took his gloves off. They usually like me tight. He likes me as long as I’m quiet. He pays well and often surprises me with little gifts. I tell him to put his gloves back on and shut my eyes. Tight.

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Best

I take ’em for the pain, I’m sure it’s physical. I’m aching all the time and like being curled up into a ball, knees on chin, arms round shin. And I only drink that to relax a bit, and it’s not much, there are worse culprits out there. And anyway, I take my vitamins so that’s ok. I try and fit in, everyone looks different though, everyone. All distorted and weird. Like cats on oil or snakes on screwed up tin foil. It doesn’t look fun. And I try to get to the sea when I can, the smell of salt and seagull shit is soothing. I’ll get chips too, cause everyone knows they are better from the coast. You have to treat yourself. But I’m tired now, I don’t like to sleep much, it’s never refreshing as they say in the magazines, but I try my best. I do try my best.

 
 

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