At night she thought about lovers lost. The fragility of bonds and promises and opportunity. The words exchanged in the early hours of the morning, when it was too late to go to sleep and too early to get up. Sweat seeping into the sheets, saliva drying into white crust around engorged lips and eyes batting away at the sudden, too-sharp image of a man laying next to her. Everything that had passed was replaced by a tangible disconnect right then and there.
She imagined the weight of these men on her, these past lovers, each who had touched and known her in their own ways. The reflections of her in the glassy surface of their eyes, her voice in their ears repeating things she had become bored of repeating. Their hands, always their hands because instead of looking at their faces as they touched her, she looked at their hands. Smoothing her over, appreciatively, and how for that brief moment she loved them for it.
If you could piece her together from all these fragments of memory, she couldn't help but think she would come out badly. Needing, searching, but always ultimately indifferent. Demanding to have it all, every inch, every thought and every breath and then disregarding it, scrapping it and forgetting it in a heartbeat. She didn't like to think of herself as cruel, but sometimes she wondered.
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