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" If you’re reading this, if there’s air in your lungs on this November day, then there is still hope for you. Your story is still going. And maybe some things are true for all of us. Perhaps we all relate to pain. Perhaps we all relate to fear and loss and questions. And perhaps we all deserve to be honest, all deserve whatever help we need. Our stories are all so many things: Heavy and light. Beautiful and difficult. Hopeful and uncertain. But our stories aren’t finished yet. There is still time, for things to heal and change and grow. There is still time to be surprised. We are still going, you and I. We are stories still going. "
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"

I buy all your favorite foods so I will be ready when you come home
because once I did this and you said “This is how I know you love
me.”

I go on long walks alone and think about a poem my friend wrote
that goes ”This is how you die by distance.

I hum the sound of the dial tone under my breath.

I stare at my hands and wonder at their uses. I consider pawning
my thighs. I consider auctioning off my hip bones. I put my breasts in
a box on the top shelf of the closet. I do not need them now.

I think of all the things I have to tell you when I will see you.
Stories like:
I just found out pumpkins are technically fruits
and
Cary Grant’s first job was in a traveling circus
and
Most mammals are born able to walk and learn to run within minutes, so we are not crazy for moving so fast.

This morning I wrote your name in the steam on my mirror, even though I knew it would fade within minutes

In my best notebook I wrote “I miss you” ten thousand times.

I wrote “I think I am missing one of my ribs”

I wrote “I envy the way leaves know exactly when to fall from the branches and when to come back in the spring”

I wrote “Everyone else isn’t you. It turns out that’s a huge problem for me.”

"
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