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A book with locked covers.

She's not excitable. She keeps her head cool and her heart, who knows.
She's not fun.
No one saw her when she screamed and kicked and bit hard at life. No one saw her when she cried violently and smashed and scratched.
They don't know her. They think she's pretty. Just a doll left in a box. Because, she's no fun.
They didn't see her ride away at midnight. Hide in the forest. Make love like there was no tomorrow. Smoke like there was no yesterday.
They didn't see her laugh hysterically at a pair of socks. Or dance on the beach until dawn. Or get the ugliest tattoo humanity has ever seen.
They didn't hear her scream, only muted resemblances.
When she asked for help, no one knew why.

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I wrote a book about you, and the grey concrete that gave life to me. The dead cement, the rough surface that scratched my knees and made them bleed. The hot asphalt, glittering at the touch of sunrays that warmed my veins until blood would overflow and pour out of me like some gory scene in a horror movie only, much brighter. It gave life to me.
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