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You lose her. In the vortex of guttered water, her tangled hair entwines. Tornado-like. Her body spinning boisterously at its core. Her name: Izra—the wooden doll with black pebbled eyes. …
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It must be some sort of Freudian twist, but as her cold fingertips draw rings on my navel, I think of my mother. Here, her body watches my tongue, asking my lips to curl into the letters of her name. I can't get erect. I remember my mother's face—her eyes almost…
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