watching tears roll down splashing onto dark blue weaves of wooly jumper. They slide over pale cheeks and tremble on the tip of a button-nose. If I kissed them they would taste of salt, wet on my lips, cold on my tongue. They glue lashes to one-another.
If I touched those scars they would be rough. Hills and mountains under my fingertips. Tiny rows, neat, tidy. Purposeful.
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