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by Hannah Messinger (January 2015)
I walk down the street from your house, hands in my sweatshirt pocket, fingers intertwined tightly in an effort to pull myself together. My breath becomes more rapid the further away I move, my walk turning into a jog and then a run. I feel my lungs burn as I inhale ice. Silvery billows cloud the path before me, but I don’t care. I free my hands from my sweatshirt, pausing a moment to rip it off completely and leave it on the snow laden sidewalk. It smells like you, and your smell makes me sick to my stomach. more>>>