It was the beginning of September, and my hair was long enough to brush against my skin and convince me that there were spiders crawling up my arms. I was sweating snowflakes.

I kept my hands in my back pockets so no one would notice the blood pooling around the edges of my fingertips. It turns out that sometimes the things in your head show up on your body.

I was holding my tongue instead of holding your hand.

I was sixteen when I learned that love is not like the movies, I was seventeen when I realized what we had wasn’t love, and girls in fairy tales never try to commit suicide over the boy who was supposed to be there forever.

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