"There is a haze in my eyes, and I wish you could see it." I think I had a name once, but that was a while back, eighteen years ago when I first opened my eyes to the world. I did not see the sterile white ceiling of a hospital when I first reached up, but a ceiling fan slowly whirring overhead, specks of dust drifting through the dull air. I have not heard it-my name-since the day she almost killed me, almost threw her baby in the trash in a fog of pregnant hormones until Dad found her lying on the gravel road, cradling his newborn child and weeping. I don't think I'll ever hear it again. But that's okay.All Rights Reserved
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