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The girls here, they try to get me to talk. They want to know What's your story, morning glory? Tell me your tail, snail. I hear their stories everyday in group, at lunch, in crafts, at breakfast, at dinner, on and on. These words that spill from them... 

Black memories. They can't stop.

Their stories are eating them alive, turning  them inside out. They can't stop talking.

I cut all my words out. My heart was too full of them.

little miss "crazy"Where stories live. Discover now