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the border grows more hostile each day, the guards, i can't make out their faces, surely one or more of them is you--images assault me, women crouching in the ditches next to roads blown out, bombed with cruel words, clutching cell phones to their ears while the diamonds on their hands signal their status, announcing their unavailability for independent thought or action, glittering in the atomic sun. tears slip down their faces as they struggle to hear The Message, tears soft as silk, silky hair touched only in the ditches of my mind, cut long ago, swept away from the floors of salons in upscale neighborhoods where beautiful people go, the names of which are unknown to those among us who dare not lift our eyes, our heads, for fear not of what we'll see but that we'll be seen, hovering in some place we clearly do not belong.
In the story the internet.
Also by jen bellefleur
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