The cut on her arm is thin, beaded at one end with blood. Fresh and untouched. Does she know it’s there or did her paper skin catch on some sharp piece of life and quietly tear? 

It’s a scratch really, perhaps from a cat. Or maybe… It’s so straight, so shallow like the fast flick of a fast knife. But in such a visible place?

There is sleepless bruising around her eyes. She glances down and smiles, covering the cut gently, wrinkling her paper skin and breaking off the bead of blood so it falls between us. 

Words: Katta Hules.

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