Angry butterflies bombarding my stomach, with wingtips like needles that cut and steal my breath. I reel with the shock of your alias; did you ever know my true identity? The sand beneath my toes didn't help me figure anything out, and the cold bay air chilled me to the core. At night the memories take over, but they play games with themselves, shifting and transforming and disappearing. Nothing makes it better, though. Nothing erases the hurt.
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