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February 14, 2011
There are two little pots of flowers on my windowsill. I bought them for 3.50 each. One is white, and one is yellow. They look like little bitty suns bobbing in the breeze from the fan. Little smiles.

They remind me of flowers given to a family at a funeral.

It would have been better if he had beaten me. It would have hurt less if he told me he hated me. Things would be simpler.

He makes it known in subtler ways. Little cuts and bruises on my ego, little doubts planted in my mind.

My funeral.