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She is like breaking glass.
As the jug hits the floor, it shatters into a thousand tiny pieces.
The impact is tremendous, and my ears tingle as if I’ve heard a gunshot.
Strange how you can associate a dead, inanimate object with yourself.
How whole it can be.
Smooth, with a hard exterior,
yet so fragile—so easily broken.
And when broken, fragmented everywhere.
So easy to sweep up and put away—not so easy to put together again.
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