She was born on a Saturday. A sunny day. The clouds came as she grew older. The tears rolled. Whys rattled in her head. Teeth gritted with frustration. Where was the break in the clouds?
She was born on a Saturday. Everyday she felt pieces of herself dying. The underside of dark clouds were her ceiling. Dreams were a mirage.
She was born on a Saturday. Early July. But inside she felt like mid December. Frozen over dreams. She was born on a Saturday.
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