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Soldier School

The cold of the gun cannon digs into my cheek and my helmet is fastened too tight so I can hardly open my mouth, but these are details of the individual and no longer matter. I cannot be me right now, not for this dance. There is here no I.

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Lifting Tupperware Lids

I see the maple-walnut cookies I ate last night, stretching across my ribs in a layer of fat which then pools in the pouch of my lower abdomen, collecting in the hips that swell over the band of the underwear that I bought during a time when I was thinner.

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Classroom

Monkeys don’t speak English and the hairy little creatures with their tough young muscles swing around in their chairs, throwing excrement-coloured things and shrieking laughter.

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You and your mind maps

You and your mind maps, your arrows connecting colour-coded post-it notes on the kitchen floor letting you know what direction you’re going in so you can tell me through logical historical progression. Religion is bad.

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