I rewind and replay the words he used to pick the lock on my heart, of which he said I deserve more. Deserve alone is a powerful word, like a gust of wind that sends you skating downhill.
Open sesame. Abracadabra. And I wanted you. He knows what words open doors, these after months of locks, defeats and paranoia.
Half of seeing, and most of believing, lies in giving up. Your eyes drift out of focus. Everything I ever sought I found when I quit looking, or long after. God hates the needy most of all.
This time I need all I'd thought I should give away, and can break what I'd held onto overlong: distortionary mirrors and nicknames, trinkets, blades, blurred photographs and representations.
When he grins it is a thousand-word story, punctuated by dimples and eye contacts. He knows when to look, and when to look away.

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