she would

if her torso weren’t hollow, if her body didn’t hang languidly so that gravity ceased to have meaning and she could not create the tension to push herself up from the earth, if she weren’t limp and loose and floating in a sea of pain, pain, pain, no sharpness, no point where knife met flesh, just a dead, dull ache at the core of her, inextricably tangled in veins and follicles so that there was nothing to fight with or against, no barrier between herself and what she was.

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