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That year her skin moved when she spoke and needed no washing. Her face looked fancy. Small jackets fit. That year she moved, talked, laughed like she belonged in the world. The stars offered impractical maps she would happily follow. Around her mom, she pretended that she was still an unhappy child. She could only move freely and unwatched in her bedroom. Alone and unseen, she would dance in her closet. Danced slowly with the dog. Danced as if she had grown a tail. Zipped around her life with doors locked. Heard her mother crying in the kitchen, turned her music up loud. That year she escaped through all open windows.
Meg Pokrass is the author of seven collections of flash fiction and two novellas in flash. Her work has appeared in three Norton anthologies including Flash Fiction America, New Micro, and Flash Fiction International, and has appeared in Electric Literature, SmokeLong Quarterly, CRAFT, The Best American Poetry, Washington Square Review, and many other places.
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