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Not love sick, but cowardly.


I'm not love sick and stupid anymore. But that doesn't change the fact that I still want to be your baby.

No, what's keeping me from saying anything is that I have yet to find an elegant way to phrase this in a text message :

Hey, do you want to come over and do some drugs with me and maybe start kissing and then probably start touching and then definitely end up fucking? But not as a booty call. You weren't a booty call then, and I certainly wouldn't be making you one now. No, I want to fuck you out of love. You're the boy that I like to dream about, because I never felt happier than when I would fall asleep in your arms, savoring the hours of the early afternoon.

Jesus, I don't want to go through the formalities! I just want to tell you, exactly, how much I want to kiss your face and stroke your hair and wrap my legs around your waist.

- - - -, I want to start over again.


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'Hope, you don't have to use it on your wedding night.'

She handed the pistol to Hope, right after the vows, right before the reception.

'I'm just kidding, darling. Don't worry. He's a good man. You did well sweetheart. He's a good man. You'll be fine.'

Hope's paper-thin smile tried to grow as she stared at her grandmother's reflection in the mirror. The mother-of-pearl grip sparkled in her grandmother's hand, bathed by the Chapel's cheap buzzing lights.

'There's a bullet for you, just in case.'

Hope had left the gun on the table.

A week earlier, drunk off self-pity, she had taken it out of its case and walked to the kitchen, where she stuck the barrel in her mouth and proceeded to take pictures of herself to send to Ray.

In a rare instance of good fortune, her phone ran out of battery before she could indulge her sense of pithy revenge. She woke up and pried open her tear-salted eyelashes then made sure to delete an…