Matt, I want to say, you’re a metaphor. Too real to be a simile and yet not real enough to be mine. Accident and circumstance keep me silent. That and not knowing how long I’ve been passed out.
Later:
Meanwhile he’s just looking at me. Looking, looking, in that way I hate most of all. It’s one thing to catch a judgmental or even sympathetic glance. Those I can take.
This is different, like he’s peering under the skin and seeing what no one — not even me — sees. Kind of like being scalped, but with love.
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