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73 Slats
There are 73 slats of wood paneling in the ceiling.
I know because I have counted them twice.
It was hard to concentrate
But I counted 73 slats both times.
My eye stings.
I can feel the swelling,
And I can see it now, too—
A purple welt that is spreading beneath it.
I'm crying.
I don't know why, it doesn't help.
I can taste the salty blood and tears.
Little pricks of his cold steel against my neck
Leaving marks like chicken pox.
It hurts
They always said it would the first time,
But this isn't how it was supposed to be.
If I distract myself,
By counting slats
It seems farther away,
And the grunts and sobs
Seem like TV in the background.
There are 73 slats of wood paneling in the ceiling.
I know because I have counted them three times.
It was hard to concentrate
But I counted 73 slats all three times.
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