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  • April Carmine


Knife in one hand and wound in the other. The self-inflicted pain was all too familiar now. The pattern seemingly unstoppable, like the ebbs and flows of the ocean's current. I succeeded in pushing another one away. The story was the same every time. An innocent meeting, a wink, a smile, a connection that felt so good at the time. It was a moment of trust—a millisecond when it seemed real, attainable, and safe. But soon the cold front blew in and the storm began. Doubt waltzed in and stared me down, followed by mistrust and fear. How could I be worthy of happiness and peace, and does it really even exist?

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