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My last grandparent is on his deathbed.
His wife died on my birthday in April.
I keep thinking about beginnings and endings.
Inhalations and exhales
If my lungs had to be scarred from an occupational hazard what would I choose?
Dust mites from the carpet in my cubicle lit by fluorescents?
Or hairspray from matinee and evenings spent backstage?
Instead I wake up with my lungs scarred from fear.
I’m unable to speak my truth never mind live it.
I’m a fraud.
I’m the best actress that ever was.

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