The dark rings of Sharpie stand out against the the golden-tan skin of my wrist. The faint blue lines of my veins run below the rings, just as my blood pulses through the veins.
Mom yelling at my sister in the next room. "Stop using all of the air fresheners. You're ten, you know better. When will you ever learn your lesson?"
What a good question. When will we ever learn from our mistakes? Is it tomorrow? Is it next year? When we're old and on our deathbeds?
Mom says, "This isn't working out for me," as if the weight of the world is on her shoulders and I'm the missing savior.
What have I done wrong?
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