I should resist, but she has the confident glow of a seasoned drunk, smelling of cheap vodka and cherry gum. She does handstands and I watch those filthy, unwashed baseball sneakers form an arc; just missing a string to be a devastating bow. She hovers upside down for a moment and her arms burst with blood and sinew. She walks on her hands, legs now bent like a scorpion, as I walk slowly and solemnly behind her like an undertaker walking to a funeral.
My friends tell me she is bad news but I like bad news. I read about murder every day, I slow down for car wrecks, and I love how the spot on her forehead is infected and seething from being picked by grubby fingernails. I love how she pushes rusty nails under her skin. I love how she took up my dare to stand under the…
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