Like an empanada, perhaps, I can fold away what is in me, protect it from being washed away. A bit of fruit, a morsel of compote, a golden kernel of tolerance.
In some ways, I would want to belong to this lot, or that — but it feels that being askew to all may just give me the jaws I need to get my head around it.
In some ways, I would want to belong to this lot, or that — but it feels that being askew to all may just give me the jaws I need to get my head around it.
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