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Monday, July 8, 2024

Girl by Sana Vasi

She spoke with a lilt that tickled her lips— words tripping over themselves in a desperate attempt to be heard. She moved with a clumsy grace and clutched onto tangled thoughts that writhed and twisted in limp, fragile hands. When she closed her eyes, trails of dandelion fluff flitted through dust-speckled doorframes— so she smiled and made a wish. Where did she go, this girl of sharp edges and feather-light reveries? Do they even know she’s gone?

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