I was lying on my back, staring up at christmas lights that looked like Latin American Catholicism. That was the first time.

Once there was a man who branded me with his fingertips and bought scotch and licorice whips every weekend. He would lick his lips and after a while dried saliva would congeal at the corners of his mouth. He liked the grey darkness, and that was the second time.

There was also the office job, where my limbs became robot arms, and robot legs. I've always known the alphabet. On my lunch break, I never had anywhere to go, so I would stand behind the building smoking cigarette after cigarette. I quit without giving notice, the third time.

And like a snake biting its tail, I was tonight on the bathroom floor, looking up, waiting for my body to react. My head was bruised from falling, sometime. I'd bitten my cheek and the blood taste was still in my mouth. There weren't any christmas lights. This is the last time.

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