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There was a book I read when I was a child.

It was about a child with Leukemia who thought making paper cranes could save her life.

She was delusional.

Something like that could never work.

I’ve never told that to anyone before.

You can guess why.

Laying gently in the center of her collarbone was a small silver paper crane.

The chain holding it was cheap and probably pinched.

She fiddled with it absentmindedly, probably a nervous habit.

It wasn’t expensive either, the metal cloudy and marred.

It did not deserve to touch her smooth skin.

Her shoulder blades jut out like clipped wings.

Folded in on themselves.

I trace my hands upward from the junction where her shoulder and neck meet.

I stop when my hands cup her jaw.

She stares into my eyes, looking expectant.

I lean in closer and her eyes close.

Her fragile neck breaks under my palms.

So much for the saving grace of paper cranes.


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