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The dreams come and they’re all okay, except the last one, the one with the baby. I’m in a grocery store and the grocery store’s too hot, too flourescent. I’ve forgotten to wear a bra again.
And I know this is a dream, and I’m drawing real life like a needle in a vein because of that one time in sixth grade when I forgot the sports bra my mother laid out for me which is a rather unfortunate occurrence when you’re the point guard on your basketball team. Thank bejeebus for that undershirt.
So right, the baby. It’s one of those sticky, beautiful babies and its mouth is packed with something crummy. Something like Cheerios and the mother’s back is turned to me, small thighs, beautiful hair. I’m sure she has a lot of friends, a lot of money, a lot of something that’s missing in my well whenever I dip a cup and it comes up dry.
And the baby’s head is attached to the mother’s shoulder, bodyless, wide-eyed and when that baby looks at me, it says the words that make up the braided fear in my core:
“You’ll never be like her.”
I want to wake up.
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