She collected quotes and stuffed them in her pockets; like bread crumbs they leaked out of the holes in her clothing, overflowing onto the feet of her neighbors.
They asked her why.
She didn't really know but she made up a lie and told them that they gave her confidence. That was false. The real reason she liked them is because they were silver-shiny, reflecting her face like mirrors, showing her herself and her insecurities and the tiny little fears that itched away at her heart like a brand new scab. The quotes ripped off that scab. They didn't even use a band aid. They just showed her for who she really was.
And it was comforting, really. To imagine that others had thought and done and been the same. She would know if people understood who she really was that way. If she quoted something important to her and they smiled in that teacher-to-a-child way, she didn't trust them with her secrets. Not her deepest darkest black-as-a-blind-bat secrets. But if they got a spark in their right eye, and nodded, then she knew.
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