I'll fix it, this; I'll fix myself.
Fix how I feel. Cram it back into the box it's supposed to be in.
And hope, fervently, that you won't find the dirt and guilt that lines the inside of my skin. That you won't see the scars on the inside of my throat, from nights spent screaming at the ghosts of his fingers. And his, and his too.
And when I am clean, when I have managed to carve out and burn the memories still trapped in my bones,
"You could be beautiful.
Don't you want to be, beautiful?"
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